


Dutybound

by camshaft22



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captured by The Empire, Depression, Gen, Presumed Dead, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Temporary Amnesia, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camshaft22/pseuds/camshaft22
Summary: After the Battle of Distna, Rogue Squadron is presumed dead, except for one survivor.Hobbie Klivian is the Last Rogue. He hates it.





	1. The Last Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to thedarlingone, irenka, and the Rogue Squadron discord for their support. Special thanks to somehowunbroken for the assistance.
> 
> I don't own anything but my car. Updates every Monday.

It was a relatively nice day for the funeral. Hobbie would almost be happy for a day like this if he wasn’t sitting here in the sun. Sure, he had his sunshades on, but he had to sit here in this stupid, hot, uncomfortable dress uniform. Hobbie stared at the eleven empty chairs in front of him. He kept his face impassive, years of being straight-faced helping belie the discomfort he felt in this stupid body stocking. It wasn’t meant for sitting and it was pulling in all the wrong areas. All eyes were on him and he couldn’t even adjust his seat for fear that the holonews would lead with ‘Last Rogue Pilot disrespects funeral.’ Hobbie closed his eyes, exhaling sharply as he realized he'd thought that. He hadn’t been listening closely but Fey’lya’s words must be infiltrating his shields after all. 

“--their bravery and the bravery of Major Klivian, the Last Rogue left alive after their tragic demise in the Hegemony,“ Fey’lya droned on.

Hobbie pressed his teeth together, refusing to react. He still didn’t know what exactly had happened… how he’d survived something that killed his squadmates. Hobbie glanced out among the crowd, looking for familiar faces. He was sure Booster Terrik and Mirax were out there somewhere. He was a little surprised they weren’t with the other Rogue spouses and family. Unless they were and he'd just missed them. Just to be sure, he scanned the faces and finally spotted them in the back, Mirax looking stoic, save for the tear tracks on her cheeks. Booster’s burning prosthetic eye looked straight at him. Hobbie wondered what they thought of all this. 

Suddenly, the Senators and everyone else rose. Hobbie glanced around, surprised, and stood, hoping that covered his late response. There was a slight crackle and hum behind him, and he turned, seeing a group shot floating there. Hobbie’s jaw dropped as he blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. It was a group shot taken a few months ago. Hobbie looked at each face, silently saying sorry, when he landed on Wes’s face and realized to his shock that he himself had been completely erased. He gawked at it, confused. He had been in this holo, right next to Wes. Why wasn’t he there? Hobbie quickly wiped his eyes, trying to make sure he’d seen it right. He was missing from the holo. He had been standing right next to Wes and now he was completely gone.

He turned to look at the crowd, looking for someone to do something about this, and noticed that people had started leaving. They had to fix this. Hobbie stepped forward and then stopped. He had no idea who to ask or even speak to about this. His shoulders sagged slightly as he watched everyone leaving. Hobbie hung his head and stood there. It didn’t matter. It did not matter that he wasn’t in the holo. It was just his ego. It just… why did they edit him out? He was just being selfish. It was past time for him to leave. It was stupid to be so upset over what was nothing. He turned back, glancing at the eleven empty chairs in front of the one he had been in on the dais. 

Hobbie let out his breath, squeezing his hands into fists and turned again, moving forward. He merged with the crowd, feeling like he was screaming _‘Look at me!’_ , but blissfully left alone. His long strides made it difficult for anyone to stop him as he passed Senators. Hobbie saw a flash of white, turning to see Princess Leia with General Solo. He gave them a respectful nod, glad to have seen them. Her speech was the only one that had sounded genuine. Hobbie wished for a moment that he could tell her that. But if stopped now, he’d be surrounded. He had to get out of here. Hobbie turned down another skybridge. Maybe if he went this way, Fey’lya wouldn’t try to get into a discussion.

***

Tycho listened with half an ear to the quiet breathing of the other Rogues as he read. The familiar lines of the Alderaanian poetry he was reading soothed his rattled emotions, even as his mind wandered. 

It wasn't even like he remembered being in Isard's hands before. Not really. Only a vague feeling of dread and foreboding. But here he was again, her prisoner, and this time his whole squadron was trapped under her control as well.

Not quite his whole squadron. Hobbie was dead. Asyr was dead. The two new pilots, Slee and Lyyr, as well. And if Isard was to be believed -- ha! -- the nine living Rogues were not here to be tortured and brainwashed, merely to join in a battle.

A rustling of fabric broke Tycho's musings. Hyperalert, he glanced over, though the only light in the darkened room was the tiny light that illuminated his datapad. Soft footsteps padded toward him. Tycho squinted into the darkness, knowing his own expression was visible.

"It's just me," Wes whispered, prowling into the range of the little light. He looked awful. On the surface, he seemed normal, dressed in his underclothes for sleep like Tycho and the others, black hair tousled as always, but Tycho knew him well enough to read the wariness in his stance and the fear and pain flickering in his dark eyes.

Tycho scooted over a little and patted the narrow bed next to him. "Couldn't sleep?" he whispered back.

Wes scrambled into the bed and wrapped his arms around Tycho in a tight hug that held more than a hint of panic. "Nightmares," he replied tersely. "You?"

Tycho set down the datapad, switching off the tiny light, and twisted around into a better position, then hugged Wes in return, patting his broad back gently. "I keep wondering when she'll show her true colors," he admitted.

Wes took a deep breath and seemed to steady a bit -- not exactly relaxing, more centering himself. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "We've all got you, okay? Wedge won't let anything happen."

"I know," Tycho replied. It was easier to believe he was safe with Wes wrapped around him like a protective wall of muscle. "I just keep waiting for the thermal detonator to blow. We don't even know what she really wants us here for."

"Pfft," Wes whispered dismissively. "In a contest of deviousness between Wedge and a former director of Imperial Intelligence, I'd bet on Wedge every time. I told you about the thing with the Wraiths and the Ewok chow, right?"

Wes was… really good at distracting him from his fears, Tycho had to admit that. "With the nakedness and all?" Tycho asked. "Yes, you told me."

"Of my own free will, that's the really impressive part," Wes said. "Iceheart could make me smear myself with that stuff, sure, but Wedge made me think I was choosing to. I bet she couldn't do that. The whole fear and breaking people thing has its limitations."

Tycho chuckled. "Now I'm just picturing Wedge talking Isard into smearing Ewok food on herself," he whispered.

Wes snickered and seemed to genuinely relax a little bit. That was good. Tycho knew too damn well how good Wes could be at redirecting attention away from his own stress.

"You want to talk about yours?" Tycho muttered gently.

Wes stiffened again, his arms tightening around Tycho. "Hobbie," he admitted. "I… I shot him down. I dreamed I did, I mean." His voice was small, laced through with a grief too huge for words.

"Oh, Wes," Tycho murmured softly, cradling him close. "I'm sorry." He stroked Wes's fluffy dark hair for a minute, rubbing the spot at the base of his skull where he carried so much of his tension. He understood exactly why Wes's guilt over leaving his dead wingmate would manifest in such a way, but… "I'm sorry," he said again. "I know it's hard to believe, but you didn't kill him. You are not to blame here. None of this is your fault."

He thought he heard Wes sniffle a bit in the darkness. "We abandoned him."

Tycho shook his head. "We would have brought him home with us if we could. We'll mourn him properly once we are home." He sighed. "You didn't kill him, Wes. You don't need to carry that guilt. I promise."

Wes sighed, not a sigh of acceptance. "Kriff, I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm not doing a great job helping you out here."

"You're doing better than you think," Tycho said, ruffling Wes's thick hair. "Just… try to forgive yourself, okay? I know it's hard."

Wes grunted noncommittally.

***

The Rogues were barely laid to rest but things went on. Hobbie fastened his duty jacket, the tension he had been carrying easing. It was such a relief to be in a normal uniform after spending all morning in that horrific dress uniform at the funeral. He glanced into the mirror, making sure he was within code, and studied himself. It was a little rough but at least he was more comfortable. He poked his cheek, grimacing. His eyes were all red and his dark circles had dark circles. Hobbie frowned at himself and shook his head. No time for vanity. He left the locker room, walking down the hall quickly. Hobbie passed other officers, hoping no one wanted to express their condolences. At least not now. He had to report to Ackbar. Once he arrived, he was waved in. Hobbie saluted sharply as Ackbar motioned for him to sit down.

“Take a seat.” Admiral Ackbar invited. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Hobbie took a seat, sitting up straight.

Ackbar nodded. “I’ve read your report. I see that you’re having some memory issues?” he asked in a concerned tone, swiveling one large eye to look at Hobbie more directly. 

“Yes, Sir. They say I may remember anytime or maybe never.” Hobbie lowered his eyes, looking at his hands, folded in his lap. He felt like a failure. Hobbie looked back up, expecting the Admiral’s judgment. “As my report stated, the last thing I recall is jumping into the system, then waking up on the Errant Venture. It was soon after regaining consciousness that I was told that my squadron were dead.” 

“Hopefully your memories return quickly. How are you doing otherwise?” Ackbar’s gravelly voice was filled with worry and Hobbie felt his stomach twist, wishing that he didn’t have to sound so concerned about him. Wedge should be here, not him.

“As good as can be expected, Sir. It’s a little hard to believe they’re gone but I’m coping as well as possible.”

“That’s excellent to hear, Major. We’re investigating what happened out there so if your memories return, be sure to alert us as soon as possible. I also want you to see one of the counselors before you return to duty.” Ackbar folded his fins onto the desk and leaned forward. “You’ll be on leave until the investigation concludes and you’re deemed fit to fly.”

Hobbie nodded with a grimace. Of course he was grounded. “Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to help in any possible way I can.”

Ackbar nodded. “Of course. Once you’re on duty, we need to discuss your plans for Rogue Squadron. Its place in our fight isn’t over yet. If you want it, you’ll be Rogue Leader.”

Hobbie licked his lips as his heart skipped a beat in terror. As much as he wanted to get back to his routine, the thought of fighting without Rogue Squadron, the real Rogue Squadron, was terrifying. “Yes, Sir. I…” He straightened his shoulders. This was their legacy and he had to protect it. “Yes, of course. I would be honored, Sir.”

“Rest for now, Major. The tides may be choppy now but the sea will calm. Dismissed.”

Hobbie stood and saluted. “Thank you, Sir.” He turned and left the General’s office. He walked down the hall, heading to his locker. He needed civilian clothing.

***

Hobbie was fine.

He was fine and it just… it hurt. To lose them. To be under investigation. It had barely been a week since he woke up in the bacta tank. Hobbie had left the base alone because he hadn’t been able to stand to be around people. Not now. At least no one would recognize him, unlike on the city transports. Coruscant’s walkways were filled to the brim with beings; what was one more as each passed, all absorbed in their own business. The ebb and flow of traffic was loud but familiar to him, feeling like an old worn jacket. Being just another anonymous face was exactly what he needed. 

Millions of beings had seen the funeral and him sitting alone, the Last Rogue. The way Fey’lya went on about that title, it wouldn’t surprise Hobbie if everyone thought that was now his name. Hobbie was slightly annoyed but Wes would’ve had a field day with it. But then again, if he was alive, Hobbie wouldn’t be the last one. If it had been up to him, the funeral would’ve been private and quiet. Their friends and family only. Each person sharing memories and secrets that were no longer meant to be kept. Instead he got speeches about their image instead of the beings behind it. It wasn’t fair. Hobbie was the unlucky one. Why had he survived? Was the universe punishing him for not dying sooner? 

He paused on a skybridge, looking down as speeders passed and people made their way around Coruscant. There was no point in jumping. At this point, he’d probably survive. 

Hobbie turned, disgusted with his luck and the galaxy, as his eyes were filled with advertisements from the shops around the bridge. He stopped short when one of the signs caught his eye. He suddenly knew what needed to be done. Hobbie walked determinedly towards a styling salon and disappeared inside.

***

Several hours later, Hobbie lay on his couch, running his fingers over the freshly shaved hair on the sides of his head. He felt stupid. He knew he looked stupid but Tycho... Tycho had been good to him. One of his few friends in the Imperial days. Hobbie and Wes may have gotten along like a house on fire, but Tycho was a friend too. So, he'd mourn him the Alderaanian way. He couldn't do a mourning braid, his hair had never been long enough, but he'd seen some of the alternatives during the Rebellion. 

The stylist had been confused at first, but he'd left the salon with what he wanted: four lines shaved into the sides of his head and everything else trimmed to emphasize the marks. He’d lost more friends that day but Wes, Tycho and Wedge were... he did this to mourn them. He'd mourn the rest while he was on stand down. He was Rogue Leader again but Command wanted him to recover first. Like he'd ever truly be the same after losing Wes, Tycho and Wedge. 

Hobbie slammed his fist on the couch, hitting the cushions a few times. He should've gone first! Why the kriff did he always come last in everything?

The sound of the door alert interrupted his train of thought. Rolling off the couch, he made his way to the door and checked the viewscreen. Blinking in surprise, he saw that Princess Leia was standing outside his apartment, waiting patiently. He quickly opened the door. "Your Highness. I mean, Senator. Sorry, Chancellor…. Um. Hello."

Leia gave him an exasperated look. "Hobbie. We're... there's too few of us from the old days left. Just Leia. There’s no need for titles.”

Hobbie felt like crying again. It was too much. She was being too kind to him. He nodded. "Yeah, I suppose it does get tiresome. Come in. I’ve got… I’m sure I have something worth drinking.”

As Leia found a seat on the couch, Hobbie began to explore the kitchen, searching for refreshments. “Tycho left some wine last time he was here. I also have water and probably turbofizz or something.”

“Wine is fine. Thank you, Hobbie,” Leia said from the living room. 

He poured her a generous amount, then himself, bringing the glasses over as he joined her on his couch. She took a drink as he lifted his glass, taking a sip of the spiced wine.

“Thank you. So, how are you really?” Leia asked, her eyes full of compassion. He didn’t deserve it.

Hobbie knew he was a mess. His eyes always turned puffy and red when he cried, and he was just so tired. “Do you want the truth or a carefully constructed lie?”

Leia gave him an exasperated look. “The truth, please.”

“Like I’ve lost everything. I know… It doesn’t compare,” Hobbie gestured to her, feeling awkward and terrible. She had experienced so much worse and here he was feeling sorry for himself. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “But it’s the worst. It feels so bad.”

“Grief isn’t a contest, Hobbie. It’s going to hurt. You’ll be in the middle of doing something when you think of them… and you can never tell them the funny story or the thing you wanted to say." She paused, her gaze going distant for a moment. "It’s not fair. It’s not right. But we have to keep at it.” Pausing, she took a long, fortifying drink. “That’s the worst part sometimes. Having to keep going. But you can do it.”

Hobbie nodded. “I know I can. I just… I miss them.” he said, voice cracking.

“So do I. So much. It's so hard to actually believe. I miss them so much.” Leia said, shaking her head. Sighing, she reached out and laid her hand on his. “Hobbie, you know if you need anything, you call me. I don't care what it is. We're friends of a sort, you and I."

Hobbie nodded, wiping his watering eyes with his other hand. "I never expected it to happen like this. Not in a millennium. I'm sorry I wasn't better."

Leia squeezed his hand firmly. "Don't do that, Hobbie. Please. You'll only hurt yourself more." She paused, eyes flickering up slightly. "Are those... did you put mourning lines in your hair?"

Hobbie flushed, looking at her. "Is that ok? I just...” he floundered, trying to make it make sense. “Tycho asked me to help him put the lines in after he defected. He didn't get to mourn properly while he was still with the Empire and he didn't feel like he could ask you, no offense.” Leia nodded in acknowledgement. “I had someone do it for me… but I can… I- I can change it. I don't want to steal from your traditions..."

Leia hurriedly shook her head. "No. No, Hobbie. Please. Please don't change it. I just... Thank you for doing that for one of Alderaan's sons," she told him, her eyes filling with tears. 

Hobbie felt his eyes fill with his own unshed tears. Swallowing deeply and holding her hand, he said, "It is my honor and privilege, ma'am." Leia pulled him close as they held each other, both crying softly. Hobbie gathered himself together as they recovered, grabbing something to wipe their faces.

“Does it get easier?” Hobbie asked her as they cleaned up.

Leia finished her wine. “Somewhat. It gets to a point where it’s not as oppressive but then you feel guilty for not thinking of them all the time. But as we continue, it’s easier to carry.”

“Thank you. For being here. Your speech… It meant a lot to me.” Hobbie shook his head. “It was, it was the only one that felt sincere.”

“Wedge, Wes and Tycho were my friends for a very long time and the Rogues meant a lot to me. I’m glad I was able to help a little.” Leia stood and Hobbie rose to join her, towering over her. She looked up at him and took his right hand. “I need to go, but you call me. I’ll get back with you.”

“Thank you, Leia.” Hobbie walked with her to the nearby speeder landing port. “Will you get back okay? I can--”

“No, I’ll be fine. Thank you, Hobbie. Have a good night.”


	2. Corellian Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had such big boots to fill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for flashback and unhealthy coping.

Hobbie stood still as the water shut off, water droplets rolling down towards the drain. He slid the stall door open, grabbing a towel and drying off. Moving to the sink, he leaned in and took a good look at himself. His face looked slightly warped and angular, the blond stubble contrasting with his thin face and sharpened cheekbones. It looked like he’d lost some weight. Hobbie eyed his shaver and sighed. He didn’t really feel like it today. Or the last six days. It was day twelve since becoming the Last Rogue. Hobbie yawned, trying to shake off the lethargy. It was hard to get up lately and even harder to get to sleep. Not that it really mattered at this point. 

He’d never have Wes shoving caf in front of him until he became coherent again. Or Wedge warning new pilots not to speak to him until at least midday, or Tycho’s gentle teasing at his ability to be battle-ready in seconds but inability to form sentences if he woke up early with no danger. Hobbie dropped the towel in the laundry chute and went to get dressed for another day of being alone with his thoughts. 

Moving to the living room, he settled on the sofa, leaning back on the cushions. Wes had helped him choose it. More like Wes chose it and told Hobbie this was the one. Wes had been right, of course. Had he ever thanked Wes for that? Of course not. What an idiot he had been. 

At least he was going to do something today. He was going to continue honoring his friends as best as he could. Hobbie was going to have a Corellian wake. It was traditional to gather together to drink to their memories and it wasn’t like he had any place to be in the morning. He had set the small bottle of Whyren’s Reserve he bought Wedge for his lifeday on his table last night in preparation. It’s not like he could give it to Wedge now. 

Hobbie slid his hands over the soft material of the sofa, taking a brief moment to just be still. It still felt like new, soft and inviting. If they were one with the Force or whatever happened, he kinda hoped that it was nice. It was a good thought. He had been taught that when you died, you died, which was more reasonable, but seeing Skywalker use the Force and just reading about it in his spare time, Hobbie wasn’t as sure anymore. But he hoped they were at rest or getting there.

He sighed and stood up, walking towards the kitchen. He had to eat something. A sandwich. That would work. He started putting one together. Then he could do a proper wake. He’d mourn Wedge and all the Rogues. Hobbie knew Wedge and Rogue Squadron were synonymous. Hobbie was a poor substitute. Just playing at being Rogue Leader. But he’d do it. The least he could possibly do was take over and protect their legacy. 

He pulled the knife out of the drawer, the light catching it as it flashed. His eyes went wide, his vision blurring. Hobbie saw a flash of something red. Then a field of stars in front of him. Hobbie’s vision cleared and he caught himself on the countertop, feeling his heart pound as he shook his head, his vision returning to normal.

“What the hell?” He looked around, feeling his skin crawl. Dread and the feeling of being lost filled him. His eyes watered until he blinked, his breaths harsh in the stillness of the room.

Hobbie let out a small noise then shook himself. “That… Ok," he let out a harsh breath. "Ok. That was weird. Obviously I need to eat something.” Hobbie sliced the sandwich in half and put the knife in the cleaner. He fought the urge to curl up on the floor. It was just... It was just... It wasn't a problem unless he made it a problem. Grimacing, he leaned against the counter in defiance of his own wishes and started eating the sandwich. He couldn't shake the feeling of floating in zero grav, endlessly and alone.

It wasn’t until he was finished with the first half that he realized he had prepared the sandwiches the way Wes preferred. He’d always bitch when they weren’t sliced in half, corner to corner. Kriff. How long Wes would haunt him? How long would it take before Wedge, Tycho, and Wes were laid to rest in his own mind? 

Maybe never. 

That’d be okay, right? If they just never left. If he held on to them? He never got to keep anything. But… but maybe this time he could keep them? He just… he wanted to keep them. Hobbie grimaced, angry at himself for... he didn't know. For surviving maybe? He tore into the second half of the sandwich, eating quickly. No. No, he needed to let them rest. They had to rest.

Saying goodbye was the very last thing he wanted. But Hobbie was determined to see this through. They deserved a good sendoff. It was his first and last responsibility to them. The Rogues were already legendary in the New Republic but this was for the real people behind the legend. Nothing was going to be the same now and that pain was like knives stabbing into his chest. Hobbie exhaled. He owed them this. It was time. The Rogues deserved to rest.

Hobbie walked out of the kitchen and towards the couch, sitting down in front of the very nice whiskey. He unsealed the bottle and poured a generous glass, letting it breathe. The scent was heavy, reminding him of squadron gatherings as he took a drink. He smiled sadly, a bit proud of how he’d beaten his own record again. He always got Wedge a better or more strong blend for his lifeday. This was the best yet. It burned and warmed his chest as tears rolled down his cheeks. With a deep breath, he tossed back the first glass. He was never going to sit and drink with Wedge again. 

They often got together to bitch about their superior officers, the Council, and just the complete nonsense that they had to deal with. Hobbie was probably one of the only people on Coruscant that saw that Wedge. The young man from Corellia that wasn’t a hero of the New Republic and was just a flight junky like the rest of them. It was both their freedoms and this time, the cause of his death. Still. Still, Hobbie couldn’t even be angry about it. The man he knew would’ve been alright with going out that way. Maybe if they’d destroyed another Warlord or whatever but… he was where he shone. 

Hobbie was both happy and sad to have been the only one to see him like that. He blinked and lifted the bottle, filling his glass full. Hobbie swallowed a mouthful. Even Wes, who worshiped Wedge and had his own special relationship with Wedge dating back to Hoth, never got to see that side of Wedge. Hobbie didn’t know about Tycho, but he didn’t think so. Wedge always had to be so in control around them. Just like him. Maybe that’s what had brought them together in friendship. Knowing that they could trust each other to just be.

He couldn’t do that anymore. For a second time, he was Rogue Leader. 

The first time he had been in command of Rogue Squadron, it was just a facade. He was a great choice to follow up Wedge but… it was a ruse. It wasn’t fake anymore. The weight of the role was his. Hobbie could bear it and would gladly but he couldn’t fill Wedge’s boots. He couldn’t even try too. So he wouldn’t. Once he laid them all to rest, he would have to chart his own course.

Hobbie drained another glass and refilled it, things getting fuzzy around the edges of his brain. He always thought it would be Tycho first. To take the role. He had a few times, when Wedge was pulled away for other things. Hobbie had enjoyed that. Being the XO to Tycho’s Rogue Leader. He wasn’t Wes when it came to paperwork but it was a good time. He gently traced the lines in his hair. He had put Tycho to rest, unable to even think about what their friendship meant to him. It was easier to think about everyone else. Tycho had allowed him to be a person... even and almost in defiance of Imperial training. He hoped Tycho knew. He really hoped he knew. 

He had such big boots to fill.

Just who the kriff was he without them? They were closer than squadmates. The word was just out of his reach but they were that. He hated this. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t supposed to do this! It wasn’t fair. Why was he the one having to do this? They should be mourning him! He should be dead! Everyone knew he crashed out all the time. His entire body was more metal than actual human. He should be dead already. So why was he here, mourning them? It pissed him off. He should’ve died and they should’ve lived! Hobbie threw his glass, hitting his holo-comm system, breaking it as sparks flew.

Hobbie leaned back. Why wasn’t there more to drink? He took in the room and felt his gut twist as his eyes drifted over the things he had kept. Lifeday presents from Wes that he had wrote Wedge’s name on, Tycho’s wine collection that ended up being here and at his home, the chaotic debris that came with knowing Wes… It was all here and he hated it. He couldn’t stay here. He hated it here. He hated that he was alone.

Hobbie narrowed his eyes then shook his head. Kriff this. He needed more to drink. Hobbie grabbed his jacket and staggered out. 

***

Hobbie knocked back a Rodian Sunset, numb as loud music beat around him. The night was young and the party was just getting started. This was Wes’s element. He’d be flirting and bringing sentient beings over to introduce to Hobbie. Maybe that was why he had been drawn here instead of somewhere more private. Hobbie motioned for another drink, knowing that he’d never get to visit a bar with any of them ever again. The soldiers that had fought for the Rebellion were few and far between, and now there were three less in the universe. He finished his drink and put down the glass, waiting for the bartender to serve him again.

“Hey buddy. Buddy.” A voice interrupted his thoughts. Hobbie slowly turned to look at the speaker, seeing a male human standing there. “You’re him.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hobbie asked him as he blinked rapidly in surprise and grimaced. This always happened. He got extremely formal when he’d been drinking. Hobbie despised how he became more Ralltiiri when drunk.

“You’re the Last Rogue. You’re him!” the man slurred.

Anger filled Hobbie as he looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Please. I just want to be left alone.”

“How did you survive? Rogue Squadron never dies … You’d think it would’ve been Antilles...”

Hobbie jerked back as if struck. His jaw dropped and his words vanished. The man kept talking but he couldn’t listen anymore. It had already begun. Wedge wasn’t a person anymore to them. None of them were. They were all gone and turned into legend. He took a breath and tried to focus.

Suddenly, a ginger-haired man stumbled into Hobbie and bounced off his arm, grabbing the angry man by the shoulder. "Heyyy, Paru!" he exclaimed. "Is that you? 'S been a while."

The drunk man shoved the ginger back against Hobbie. "I don't know any Paru, and I don't know you," he said. "Get your kriffing hands off me!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the friendly ginger drunk retorted, sticking his hands in the air. "No hard feelings. Just… you look exactly like him. You sure you're not Paru?"

Sighing, Hobbie closed his eyes, feeling lost. They were gone. Even if he had wanted to keep them... They were gone. Hobbie just wanted to drink. In peace. Why had he come here? He opened his eyes to see if the bartender had dropped off his drink yet. Wes would’ve loved it here. That was it. He was there for that reason. His brain shied away from that line of thought. It was too much to think anymore about Wes. They were all in each other’s pockets so much, it was strange to think of himself without Wes.

"Klivian. Hey." A tall blond man -- taller even than Hobbie, and at least twice as broad -- caught Hobbie's attention and jabbed a thumb toward the door. "Let's get out of here." 

Hobbie moved without thought. He slid off the seat and followed him outside, only stumbling twice. He seemed so familiar and he knew Hobbie’s name. Why was he familiar? They must know each other. Maybe if he went with him, the deja vu would be answered. 

The outdoor air was a lot hotter than Hobbie remembered. He frowned and tried to stand still while the world wobbled around him. 

The blond man stuck his hand out and grabbed Hobbie's shoulder, steadying him. Maybe the world wasn't wobbling, then. Hobbie tried harder to balance, narrowing his eyes to focus on the man's face. "Wait, I do know you. Do I know you? You look different. Are you different?"

An amused smirk crossed the man's face. "I'm a little different. Let's just leave it at that."

Hobbie narrowed his eyes. Why was everything so confusing and terrible? Hobbie was about to separate himself from the familiar blond man when the drunk ginger-haired man from earlier joined them. Why was he here? Hobbie realized he hadn’t actually spoken out loud. “Why are you here?” 

The ginger man gave Hobbie a very un-drunk look. "I'm your guardian spirit," he said dryly, sounding neither convivial nor slurred. "C'mon, let's get him home."

Hobbie narrowed his eyes at him. "I don't have one," he said, very certain of that. He drew back, trying to pull his arm away as he looked at them suspiciously. “Not likely. I’m…” he trailed off for a moment then remembered what he was saying. “I’m, I’m doing something. I’m not… I’m going there.” he said as he pointed to another bar. Hobbie tried to walk away but he couldn't move. He turned back towards them. Oh. They were holding his arm. Wait. “You both look so familiar. You sound! You sound familiar. Why?” He tried to think. “Why do you look different?”

The ginger gave him an amused look. Pulling a dark cap out of one of his pockets, he put it on, and something… changed. Suddenly, one of Wes's Wraiths stood there. Hobbie let out a breath, feeling a stab of pain. The Wraiths. Oh no. "We were undercover," the man said, "but now we're getting you home. You were headed for a drunk and disorderly, once he took a swing at you."

“So?” Hobbie asked with a scoff, looking at him like he was stupid. Why was he trying to stop Hobbie from mourning? “Loran. It is not a Corellian anything without a fight.” Hobbie shook his head, wondering why Loran was being so stupid. “I am not going home. So, thank you. This was fun. I am going. Elsewhere.”

The blond man didn't let go of Hobbie's arm. Why wasn’t he letting him go? "You're not in a fit state to keep drinking," Loran said firmly. "We're going to escort you home, or to a hotel, or somewhere else you can sleep it off safely. Your choice."

Hobbie looked at him, affronted. “Why is it any… any business of yours?” 

An expression Hobbie couldn't quite identify flickered across Loran's face. "Because you were Janson's friend," he said quietly.

Hobbie stopped cold as he blinked. He folded in on himself slightly, the blond holding him up. Tainer. If this was Loran, the big man had to be Tainer. Wes… They knew Wes too, didn’t they? “Oh,” he said, looking miserable and lowering his head. “Very well. I'll go with you.”

Loran nodded. "Good enough." He stepped to Hobbie's side, the side Tainer wasn't on, and looped Hobbie's arm over his shoulders. "Let's go, then."

They walked for a few minutes before anyone spoke again. 

"So," Tainer said quietly. "Corellian wake. Alderaanian mourning stripes." One of Hobbie's boots caught on an unevenness in the walkway, and Tainer paused for a second to steady him. "If I can ask, what were you planning to do for Janson?"

Hobbie frowned, pensive. “Taanab does not… none of their traditions seem to fit. I'm not precisely certain yet."

"It has to be right," Tainer said sympathetically. "He was… unique."

"He… he was my best friend," Hobbie said. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling guilty. How would Wes ever get to rest if Hobbie couldn’t finish mourning them? Another thought struck him, and he frowned at Tainer. "You know about mourning stripes?"

Tainer nodded a bit. "You're aware of my... history with Janson, I'm sure. That my name wasn't originally Tainer. Well, I'm not actually from Sluis Van, either. I was born on Alderaan."

"Oh. Oh, ok," Hobbie said, nodding. That made sense. "I just… I really miss them," he said then wondered why he told them that. 

"We all do," Loran said mildly, leading them around a corner onto another walkway.

Hobbie realized that he didn't actually know where they were headed. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, curious. Did they know where his apartment was? Maybe they'd just dump him somewhere.

"Your apartment," Loran said. "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else for the night."

Hobbie thought about that. "There is a mess," he said, remembering the broken holocomm. "But I would prefer not to go to a hotel." He lowered his voice confidentially, leaning on Loran a bit more. "They are weird."

"Apartment it is, then," Loran said.

***

By the time they got back to his apartment, Hobbie was starting to feel less drunk and very tired. The city was loud with people and his eyes hurt. 

Loran and Tainer brought him right to his door. That should bother him. Hobbie wasn’t sure why that should bother him, but something about that bothered him. 

“Well, this is my apartment. Well done.” Hobbie said in front of his door. “I appreciate you bringing me home. I am going to go sleep. Thank you.” 

Loran stepped away from Hobbie's side and stretched, reaching high over his head, audibly cracking his shoulders. "Good idea," he said. "You mind if we grab a glass of water from your kitchen before we traipse on back? That was a long walk." He smiled in a friendly manner.

Hobbie paused. Well, a glass of water would end any obligation between them for bringing him home. “I suppose I do owe you that much for getting me here safely.” He pressed his hand on the scanner as the door slid open and he walked in. The lights came on, revealing the sparse living room with the couch and the remains of his broken holo-comm. “The kitchen is over there. Help yourselves.”

Tainer helped Hobbie over to the couch and sat him down. Loran followed and sat down near the other end of the couch, giving Tainer a slight nod. Tainer headed off into the kitchen.

Loran's demeanor changed. "So," he said, an edge in his voice. "How did they die?"

The question made Hobbie's chest ache. He didn't know. If only he did. Maybe it would put them to rest instead of haunting his every step. "I'm told I was shot down... I can't remember anything about what happened. I... I keep dreaming of starlight and being weightless... but I can't... I can't remember."

Loran's mouth tightened. "I see." Before he could say anything more, Tainer reappeared from the kitchen, holding three glasses of water carefully. Loran took two of the glasses from him and offered one to Hobbie, while Tainer leaned against the end of the couch next to Loran.

Hobbie took the glass, taking a drink. He closed his eyes. “They offered me Rogue Lead,” he said quietly. Why was everyone moving forward when all he could do is stay in one spot?

"And you think you should take it?" There was something in Loran's voice Hobbie didn't understand. He sounded almost… disdainful.

“I want to protect their legacy… I’m the only one left that’s still in Starfighter Command,” he explained. It was all he could do for them now. They had been like a family to him and he had to make sure everything was right. “It’s…” Hobbie paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s my duty to continue.”

"Just curious," Loran said. "Since this is the second squadron you've been involved with that was wiped out by an ambush, after all."

Hobbie tilted his head and looked at him. What a rude question! He couldn’t believe this. Wasn’t it enough that the Rogues had died? Loran had to bring up the Talons too? He gave Loran a chilly look. “Unfortunately, the Imperials use ambush tactics. So do we. Perhaps you’d like to write a strongly worded letter for them to cease?” 

Tainer snickered. Loran gave him a quick sidelong glare. "You're right, of course," he said smoothly, rising to his feet. "Thank you for your time, Major Klivian. We can see ourselves out."

“Thank you for making sure I got home. Not sure how you knew where I lived but thank you nonetheless,” Hobbie said, not bothering to stand. 

Loran smiled. "It's our job to know things. Good night, Major."

“Goodbye,” Hobbie said, watching them leave. He sagged into the sofa, tilting his head upwards as he tried to make sense of what just happened. As usual, Hobbie found no answers. “Kriff.” He rose to his feet, feeling a little woozy, and walked to his bedroom. The rest of this could wait until morning.


	3. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions, lies, and worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Monday

"I think he was telling the truth," Kell said. "At least, most of the truth."

The Wraiths, ten in number, were gathered in a private lounge, high in the Coruscant skyscraper that housed segments of New Republic Intelligence. Kell was sitting on one of the sofas. Tyria, his girlfriend, was sitting on the floor between his knees, letting him braid her long blonde hair. Kell wasn't terribly skilled at the complex Alderaanian hairstyles of his youth, but braiding was a good way to keep his hands busy while he was thinking.

Face looked at him, unimpressed. He pulled a chair over from one of the research stations and straddled it. “I think he has you as fooled as he did everyone else,” Face said frankly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He fooled General Antilles for years, so you know he’s very good.” 

"Or he's not actually a traitor," Tyria pointed out. "That's still a possibility."

Face frowned heavily. “Or he’s not actually a traitor. It’s possible, sure. I just…” he shook his head. 

“He fits the profile of a deep cover agent,” Shalla spoke up. She stopped pacing for a moment to prop one of her feet on the back of another sofa -- the one mostly occupied by Piggy saBinring, the Wraith's genius Gamorrean - and do a complicated sideways stretch. “It’s been on his file for awhile, but there wasn’t anything worth investigating until now. Plus it was felt that if he was a spy, Antilles or Celchu would discover it far before anyone else did. Imperial Intelligence recruits from Ralltiir are most always Thirdborns like Klivian. The Ralltiiri don’t want them and they’re easy to train and control.”

“The Ralltiiri don’t want them?” Elassar asked, perplexed. “Why not?”

Face took up the conversational thread. "It's their culture," he explained. "Traditionally, Ralltiiri have only two children per family. One to inherit, one to marry into another family and make an alliance. There's no role for a third child, so they're seen as a waste of resources. Before the Empire got involved, a Third like Klivian would have been sold into servitude on-planet, if he wasn't just killed in childhood. The Imperials just manipulated that tradition for their own purposes."

“That’s messed up,” Elassar said, looking uncomfortable. 

Shalla nodded and shrugged. “It does make them ripe for the picking. A little bit of attention and boom. Loyal for life.” 

"What were you angling for in his apartment?" Kell asked Face. "I couldn't figure it out." He'd asked Face something similar on the way back to base, but Face had brushed the question off for later.

Face shrugged easily enough. “He was drunk. Genuinely drunk -- an agent that deep wouldn’t have faked it. He went out to play the role of a grieving best friend and did it rather well. I was hoping that a change in tone would get a reaction. Give me something.” 

Tyria scooted around a bit from where she was seated, looking toward Face. Kell stopped his braiding so as not to pull her hair. “So, did it?” 

“Not particularly,” Face said as he leaned forward, folding his arms on top of the chair and resting his chin on top. “I asked how they died, he said he didn’t remember, I asked if he really should become Rogue Leader, he got a bit pissy about that one. But everything was right. He didn’t fumble or sound rehearsed. It’s perfect. Too perfect. Something is going on there.” 

From one of the terminals, their newest operative, Aki Tevaan, leaned her head out. Her bright orange hair matched the famous New Republic flightsuits. “His financials are pretty... clean," she said. "He does have investments, which is unusual for a fighter pilot, but not too surprising considering his homeworld. The only recent change there is that he just received survivor benefits from Antilles, Celchu, and Janson. They were all listed as each other's next of kin." She paused, considering that information. "Seems a little sad, really."

Kell nodded, piecing together the information with what he'd known of the four men. If any of them had living family or other close friends, he'd never heard it. Antilles and Janson had lived in each other's pockets the entire time they'd served with the Wraiths. Klivian had practically haunted Janson's footsteps whenever their units were stationed together; Kell had never figured out how the two of them had become friends, but he knew they'd spent several years training new squadrons together after the Battle of Endor. 

The Wraiths’ sniper Bettin wrinkled his nose, taking in the information. “So, maybe they’re paying him through the investments,” he said thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair, arms cradled around his head. “Or it’s not about money. His entire world doesn’t want him, like Shalla said. So he’s a believer.”

"Eliminating the Rogues was a major risk, though," Face mused. "It puts him in the spotlight. People are talking about why he survived."

“On the contrary,” said Runt Ekwesh. Face and the other twisted around to look at him; Runt’s accent was Ralltiiri, or as close as the Thakwaash pilot could get. His expression had changed as well, becoming mournful. The Wraiths were familiar with this phenomenon: members of Runt’s species formed new personalities as they learned, and for Runt, understanding an intelligence target meant quite literally getting into their head.

“You think it’s not a risk?” Face asked with a frown.

“It’s dangerous, sure, but consider,” Runt said in the ersatz Hobbie voice. “I’ve been in place for a very long time. I managed to stay out of the first Death Star battle by being sick and after losing my arm. An unfortunate occurrence but useful. I’m in a position to join Skywalker as a pilot. I’m already trusted because of the Rand Ecliptic. I can drop little pieces of intel. Enough to be useful but nothing suspicious. They trust me. They trust me to teach their up and coming pilots. I have Janson watching me, sure, but he trusts me too. We’re friends,” he said with a scoff.

“It was very difficult after Director Isard lost Coruscant. I was alone. She was busy fighting the Rogues and I… I was stuck teaching,” Runt said, looking frustrated. “Then she died. I was adrift but I stayed. I was in a good position. Trusted and still gathering intel. I had to bide my time, waiting for a worthy successor to rise. Then Grand Admiral Thrawn arrived. Perhaps I offered my services, perhaps I didn’t. But I was waiting, ready to return to the fold.”

Runt grit his teeth, looking distraught. “Then he was killed at Bilbringi. One last hope, snuffed out. I had been playing loyal, dependable, mournful Lt. Hobbie Klivian for so long! My career was dead in the water because Antilles wouldn’t accept a generalship and I couldn’t effectively perform my mission! To have Thrawn rise and fall like that?!” he shook his head. Then, I receive a message. I’m reactivated. I am given new purpose. The final destruction of Rogue Squadron.”

"It's not like it'd be difficult," Shalla said, pacing again. "If you're part of a squadron and nobody suspects you, you have a million opportunities in combat to take out your squadmates. Especially during an Imperial ambush. If he simply shot General Antilles in the back at the right moment, while the General's shields were forward, he could shift the whole course of the battle. Maybe take out one or two of the others in the confusion, make sure nobody would return to report on his treachery, then flee."

"From there, as the last survivor and new leader, Klivian has full control of the Rogues," Dia said from her perch on the back of Kell's sofa. “He moves up in rank and gains access, power, value.” Her brain tails twitched with satisfaction as her lips curled in a smirk. “If he were to be revealed in the investigation, however, each and every defector comes under scrutiny. All the way back to the Rebellion. Klivian fought with them since before Yavin, after all. You could take out half our generals without firing a single shot if the Council does what it usually does and overreacts.” Dia rolled her eyes and her brain tails twitched in annoyance. “The military is destabilized, the government loses key people, and other agents move to fill the gaps. They win in either scenario."

“But what about Klivian? Wouldn’t he be executed for treason if we found him out?” Elassar asked. “Or would they arrange an escape?”

“If we were to go with Face’s hypothesis, Klivian is a fanatic,” Piggy spoke up. “He would do anything to further the Empire's goals. He’s been in place, a mine in the field so to speak, for decades. Klivian would probably embrace his death with pride as long as he knew there were others to continue his work. However, if we go with Kell’s hypothesis, Klivian is mourning and had nothing to do with the ambush. He may have been in situations that we feel are suspicious, but he was also a part of the Rebellion and many other loyal officers were in the same places. I’m unconvinced of either possibility at the moment. We need evidence.”

"I agree," Face said. "We gather evidence, we unmask a traitor."

"Or not," Kell said dryly. He still wasn't convinced of Klivian's guilt. All he really knew of the man were rumors. That Janson and Klivian had been more than close, he believed; that Klivian was the only person who could keep Janson under control, he knew to be false. That Klivian was secretly an Imperial spy, with Janson blind to his true nature? Kell was fully aware he didn't know either man well enough to say. Something about Face's suspicions felt wrong, but not in any way he could argue.

"We gather evidence, we find out the truth," Tyria said. That, at least, Kell could get behind.

Face nodded, seeming to concede the point. "Either way, those bastards took out our best squadron. I want a little payback. Shalla, I'm moving Klivian to the top of our surveillance list; I want him followed any time he leaves his apartment."

Shalla nodded. "I'll update the duty roster."

"Anything else?" Face asked. The Wraiths shook their heads. "Good. You have your assignments."

***

Hobbie glanced around as the therapist smiled. The office was welcoming with comfortable chairs and interesting looking stone walls. The therapist was a statuesque Devaronian with pink skin and dark, elegant horns. Hobbie took a seat across from her in the empty chair. He had finally shaved and put on the growth stop balm to keep himself clean-shaven. There was no way they’d clear him if he looked like he hadn’t been taking care of himself. 

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today, Major Klivian. Please make yourself comfortable. Before we begin, is there something you’d prefer to be called?” 

“Hobbie.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve been called my first name since before the Imperial Academy.”

She gave him a warm look. “Excellent. I’m Mari. So, to begin, this is going to be more of an assessment of your current status. It’s completely confidential. Anything that we discuss here is only between us. The only information that will go back to your superior officers will be whether you’re ready for duty or need more time.”

“Alright. That seems reasonable enough,” Hobbie said with a nod. He had to try and get cleared. The investigation was still on-going, but if he could get cleared, he could at least start rebuilding the squadron. 

“I understand that you’ve been through a lot lately. How are things going?” Mari asked as she held her datapad in her lap, a stylus resting between her fingers. Hobbie noticed the manicured talons. They were pretty.

He frowned, realizing he had zoned out a bit. After reviewing the last few moments mentally, he considered his answer. He had to make sure it was enough. “It’s been difficult. I miss my squadmates and my friends. I still don’t have much memory of what occurred, just what I’ve been told. It’s… hard but I’m just trying to be okay.”

Mari nodded. “How are you handling your stress?”

“Mostly just taking it one day at a time.” Hobbie replied. 

“That’s good to hear. Are you feeling depressed or suicidal?” Mari asked, watching him.

Hobbie shook his head. “No. Not particularly. Like I said, I’m grieving and sad about what happened to them, but I’m not wanting to hurt myself and I feel fine otherwise. I’ve been doing some mourning and just… dealing. I’ve gotten treated for depression before but I’m good now,” he said, remaining stoic as he watched her make notes. Hobbie wouldn’t be able to go back on duty if he told her he had considered suicide off and on. If Command knew he wondered why he survived over them or that he wasn’t sleeping through the night, they wouldn’t clear him. The only thing he could do at this point was his duty. He had to be able to return to service. Once he did that, everything else would get into shape.

“That’s definitely good. These things can sneak up on you. If you start feeling out of character, be sure to reach out. Everything that’s going on is a natural part of the grieving process. We just want to make sure you have the resources you need.”

“Should I come back if that comes up?” Hobbie asked.

“If you’d like. I’d be happy to start treatment with you. Or I’m sure another therapist can take your case. This is about making sure you’re ready and healthy.” She tapped on her datapad. “I’ve just sent our comm information to your device. You did sync it with our system, correct?”

Hobbie nodded. “Yeah, absolutely.” He held his datapad up and showed her the message. “I’ll call if it gets bad.” 

“I’ll forward your status to your commanding officer. Thank you for coming in today and I hope to see you again.”

Hobbie nodded, standing up and leaving the office. That seemed much easier than he expected. Maybe he could get back on duty soon.

***

_He was floating. Terror surged through him as the inky blackness surrounded him. It was all hopeless._

Hobbie gasped as he sat up, covered in sweat and breathing deep. “What…?” he asked, glancing around his bedroom. He glanced at the chrono and saw it was 0300 hours. With a groan, he laid back down, feeling the sweat cool on his skin. “Ugh. Well, at least this time I slept more than ninety minutes.” Hobbie cupped his flesh hand over his eyes and sighed again. When would he sleep a whole night? Kriff. He hadn’t slept well since before the incident. Maybe a run?

Hobbie rolled out of bed and stood, walking towards the closet to get his PT gear. Maybe a long run would wear him out.

***

The pilots' lounge was almost empty. There were several lounge areas on Isard's secret base, but the Rogues had staked out this one as their own, and the Imperial pilots seldom intruded. Myn spent a lot of his time here when he wasn't in the TIE Defender simulators or practicing with his sniper rifle on the firing range. It was quiet.

Janson was sitting at one of the tables, carefully reassembling his blaster, wiping each part with a cleaning cloth and checking its alignment, just as he'd done every day this week. His round face was solemn, his big hands sure and careful.

Blasters only needed to be cleaned every six months or so, as a rule, unless something truly drastic happened to them. Or to their owners. Myn had known Major Janson for almost three years now. When Janson had trained Myn's first squadron, the Talons, he and Klivian had been nearly inseparable. Losing his longtime wingmate had to be hitting Janson hard.

Myn rose from his chair, taking his sniper rifle with him. He carried the long case almost everywhere, especially here among enemies. 

Janson glanced up as Myn approached, nodded mildly, then turned his attention back to his work. Myn sat down at the other side of the table and began disassembling his rifle, attempting to radiate silent sympathy in Janson's general direction. He didn't have much to offer in the way of words, but he hoped he knew the man well enough after three years to guess that he might appreciate company. 

They sat together for a while, quiet, absorbed in their work. Janson finished reassembling his blaster and just glared at it for a bit, looking dissatisfied. Myn suspected he was trying to decide whether taking it apart and cleaning it over again would be too obvious an attempt to keep himself busy.

Inyri Forge wandered into the lounge, looking bored, and headed over to their table, offering Myn a brief wave. "Hey, Janson," she said, leaning against the table. "You want to go scam the Imp pilots at cards?"

Janson looked up and… shifted, somehow. One second, he was a weary-looking man about Myn's own age, whose big shoulders were bowed with the weight of his loss; there was an instant's flicker of something flat and inscrutable, almost reptilian, in his dark eyes; then he was a boyish youngster with a sunny, mischievous grin, the very picture of optimism. "Let's go lose some credits," he said, bouncing up from his chair, his smile just a little too sharp for comfort.

Myn watched the pair leave, thoughtful. Janson was hurting a lot more than he'd realized. That quick, vicious eagerness… the man's soul was full of shards of glass. Myn knew how badly loss could affect a person. He'd want to keep an eye on Janson.


	4. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Monday

The apartment was quiet. It was still and the only sound that could be heard was the gentle hum of machinery that usually was unnoticeable background noise. Everything used to be so much louder. Hobbie tried to keep reading the novel he had downloaded on his datapad. It was out of his favorite series but everything was just blurring together. He was pretty sure he'd read this page several times now but he couldn't make sense of it. Was this how his life would be from now on? 

He'd gone to this story because it was his favorite but it did nothing for him. Hobbie put the datapad down as his thoughts drifted again. Asyr would have liked this one. She usually had most stories figured out in the first act but he still felt that she would've been surprised at the end. She had been so excited for a future with Gavin… and now it was nothing. Everything was gone except him. Everyone that mattered was gone. 

Hobbie wondered when he wouldn't think about the Rogues. Maybe never. He had lost people before but this was different somehow. It felt different. He had lost an entire squadron full of the people he liked. Hobbie knew he wasn't very outgoing and immediately likeable like Wes was-- He paused, feeling like he couldn't breathe. Wes wasn't anymore. None of them were. 

Hobbie rose to his feet, needing…. Something. Anything. How would he ever move on? Leia had said he would… but why wasn't he? He was trying so hard and it wasn't working… was he defective? Would he be stuck here, unable to let them rest? Missing them without end? Hobbie finally went to the kitchen and pulled out a turbofizz. He went to the counter and sighed heavily before sitting on the floor, back against the cupboards and hidden from sight. 

He had lost people before. Why was this being that much more difficult? No one else would be this pathetic and miserable. They were all so much better. He should have grabbed the last of Tycho's wine. He'd never hear Inyri's laugh when she won at Sabacc again or Corran's insistence that Corsec was great while Myn made faces behind him. Myn… he had taught him then became a squadmate with him later. Myn wasn't the same after his losses but he had managed. Maybe there was hope there. Everyone had been so important to him. He hadn't realized how much he missed being a Rogue while being an instructor. 

Hobbie closed his eyes, propping his arms across his knees and letting the turbofizz dangle between his legs. They were gone. Space dust. He sat there for what felt like an eternity. Hobbie let out a heavy breath. He realized something. This lost, empty feeling was like what Tycho had described feeling after losing Alderaan. After losing his family. Hobbie had lost his family. 

It made him feel like he'd been stunned. Family had always been difficult. Coming from Ralltiir and being unwanted, unneeded and completely unnecessary as a Third-born had warped his concept of what family was. Running from Ralltiir and his family had felt like freedom. But losing the Rogues? Losing his… his real family? It was too much to bear.

The door chime rang, making him jump. He turned, getting up on his knees as he peered over the counter. Who would be coming over? Maybe he'd ignore it. The chime went off again. Hobbie exhaled and rose to his feet. This had better be important.

Hobbie looked outside to see a droid with a delivery logo on its chest area. Delivery. Why would he be getting a delivery? Hobbie opened the door. 

"Mr. Derek Klivian?" The droid asked. 

"Yes?" Hobbie asked. 

"I have a delivery for you. Please sign." The droid extended the datapad towards him. Hobbie didn't take it.

"What is it? Who is it from?" 

"I was not given that information, Sir. It should be on the datapad."

Hobbie reluctantly took it, starting to read it. He had no idea who the Darnent Firm represented other than they seemed to be lawyers. There was an official looking letter with his name on it. He glanced out to look at the crates and his jaw dropped. Kettch. Wes's ewok toy. Oh Force. He knew what this was. Hobbie shook himself and started reading, making sure it was what he feared. 

He was Wedge, Tycho, and Wes's beneficiary. 

Hobbie didn't want this. The letter continued, giving him access to their accounts and other possessions. Mostly because he was the last name on Wedge and Tycho's lists. Hobbie furrowed his brow in confusion. Why hadn't he gotten a notice before now? He signed where he needed to, accepting his friends' things and the responsibility of their wishes, and began downloading the necessary information to his own datapad. The droid pushed the hovercart into his apartment as Hobbie pointed to the corner. After unloading the six crates, it turned and handed Kettch to him, then left with its datapad. Hobbie was alone once more. 

He looked at the huge Ewok in his hands. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Wes's footsteps hurrying down the hall, Wes laughing already at whatever he was about to say or do. Hobbie was struck by the injustice of it all. Why was he still alive?! Why was it him left alone here to deal with this? He was supposed to go first! He'd come so damn close so many times already. Why hadn't it been him?! He snarled in frustration and flung Kettch against the wall. It wasn't right! It wasn’t fair! He hadn't even laid Wes to rest!

Hobbie stared, frustrated and angry, glaring at where Kettch had landed. With a turn of his heel, Hobbie left the room. He couldn't deal with this. 

***

Tyria felt like she was standing in a dust storm.

Not physically, of course. Physically, she was standing in a grocery store, unobtrusively pretending to shop for fresh vegetables. But her Force sense was engaged, active, focusing on Major Klivian a few displays away, and the man was a maelstrom of unpleasant sensations. He felt… gritty, and she could taste a green-yellow flavor, and there was a distorted sound all around him.

Shaking her head slightly, Tyria mentally suppressed her Force sense -- a much easier task for her than activating it -- and considered Klivian with her physical senses. She'd only known him from when they were stationed together, as Janson's tall thin pale shadow; he was almost Kell's height, angular and gawky like an animal with far more knees and elbows than it needed. He was currently scowling at a display of muja fruit. The mournful expression was normal for him, but the dark circles under his eyes were not, and neither was the grating loudness of his Force presence.

Brushing a stray lock of blonde hair back from her face, Tyria finished bagging up a few stalks of waterroot, tucked the flimsiplast bag into her shopping basket, and moved on to consider the skeff. She hadn't been entirely convinced by either Face's or Kell's theories of Klivian's behavior, agreeing with Piggy that more evidence was needed, but seeing the man here, something was definitely wrong. His life was not proceeding according to plan. If he was an Imperial spy who'd successfully wiped out the Rogues and was poised to take the squadron over, he should feel… calm at the very least, if not satisfied or happy. 

Of course, if Klivian was as spectacularly good an Intelligence agent as Face supposed, he might be able to fake the emotions appropriate to losing his squadron. Face, as an actor, could fake his emotions in such a way that Tyria could feel them through the Force; when Face did that, Tyria could feel, almost taste, the slightly wrong shape and color of the emotions, the too-sweet pinkish-clear tang in the aftertaste, the too-hard uncomfortable edges of the feeling against her mind, the stickiness. Klivian's emotions weren't sticky or too sharp. They felt genuine. 

On the other hand, she'd never practiced perceiving fake emotions with anyone but Face, since the other Wraiths were unskilled actors and tended to blast her with the equivalent of loud emotional static rather than producing anything realistic enough to practice on. Maybe Klivian's fake emotions simply tasted different, had their own tells which she couldn't recognize. Or maybe he was so impressively skilled an agent that he didn't have recognizable Force tells. If he was an Imperial agent, he'd fooled Master Skywalker at close range for years, after all. Although of course Master Skywalker had been much younger and less experienced back then…

Klivian shuffled sideways, moving to a high-piled display of Lorrdian gapanga next to the muja fruit. Tyria turned to the quiaots, keeping him in her peripheral vision, and sighed internally. Sometimes there just wasn't a solid answer based on evidence. Face usually encouraged the Wraiths to trust their gut feelings and make whatever call felt right in the moment, but occasionally -- as with Castin Donn, years ago -- that maverick spirit could lead to disaster.

Tyria picked up a bundle of quiaots, pretending to examine them for cracks or spots. Worst-case scenarios… if she spoke to Klivian, let him realize that the Wraiths were surveilling him, would she be putting her squadmates in danger? On the other hand, if he wasn't a spy, if he truly was the grieving man he appeared to be, and she let misplaced caution prevent her from helping him--

Oh, to hell with this. Tyria slapped the quiaots back down on the pile, spun on her heel, and strode over to the gapanga display. "Major Klivian?"

Klivian jumped and turned to look at Tyria. He narrowed his eyes and studied her. “I know you, don’t I? You’re…” He looked around quickly. It was a slow time of day, and this part of the store was almost empty. Tyria wondered if he was being careful of her identity or his own. "You were one of Wedge's pilots," Klivian said.

"That's right," Tyria said. "If I can ask, how are you holding up?"

Klivian grimaced. “Well, I’m doing… fine.” He shrugged. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking. How are you doing?” Either the man was a terrible liar, or he was impressively good at faking an inability to lie convincingly.

"I miss them," Tyria admitted. "I mean, we weren't especially close, but Comman--I mean, General Antilles saved my career at least twice just that I know of. And Lieu--Major Janson…" She shook her head. "You remember the brainwashing scare last year?"

"When Zsinj was programming our people as assassins. I remember," Klivian replied.

"Well, I don't know if you were aware, but I had to shoot down one of the assassins," Tyria said, trying to keep her voice steady. She saw a sudden flicker of recognition on Klivian's face. If he hadn't known who she was, he did now. Did it matter? It was a little late to second-guess herself. "Major Janson--" Tyria continued, swallowing hard. "You know about his… history with Kell, of course."

Klivian nodded. “The thing about Kell’s father, right? Yes, I know.”

Tyria nodded, too. "He, uh, Janson agreed to talk with me about it. Share his experience. Because of the… similarities." She still remembered that talk vividly: Janson's normally sunny expression serious, his dark eyes deep and shaded, his big brown hands fidgeting as they'd compared their feelings over being forced to shoot down allies. He hadn't had answers for her, but he'd listened and given her what support he had, though it couldn't have been easy for him. "It -- it helped. He was… they were good men. Both of them."

Klivian let out a half-sigh, like he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. “Yes. They were.” He ducked his head for a moment, seeming to pull himself together, then looked at her again. “Thank you," he said. "It’s stuff like this that I’d rather hear about. Not about their battles. I was there for most of that, but about how they helped.”

"They were good at that," Tyria said. She went quiet for a couple of seconds, chewing on the corner of her lower lip. Should she leave it at that? Ah well, in for a jump, in for a flight -- she'd spoken up to offer her help. "This is going to sound kind of weird," she said, feeling a little awkward, "but I couldn't help noticing, um… you look like you're not sleeping well." She gestured vaguely at her own face, indicating the dark circles under Klivian's eyes.

Klivian shrugged. "So? Like I said, I’m fine. This just happens to me.”

Force, the man wasn't even trying to be convincing. Just blocking everybody out. He had to be genuine, surely? Tyria gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "If you say so," she replied, deliberately bypassing the argument. "My point is -- you may know I'm slightly Force sensitive."

Klivian appeared to realize something and he snapped his fingers. "You're Wes's baby Jedi!" he exclaimed. Then, blushing, "Sorry, that was rude of me. But Wes spoke about you all a lot. Please continue?" He looked horribly embarrassed to have interrupted her.

Tyria smiled. For all his awkwardness, Klivian was oddly endearing. She could see how Major Janson had become attached to him. "It's okay," she said. "Anyway, I -- I think I might be able to help. I know a Force technique to help ease people into sleep. Good sleep, no dreams. Are you interested?"

Klivian narrowed his eyes skeptically. “You want to put me to sleep? Will I wake up with all my organs?”

Tyria laughed. "Face does create quite an impression, doesn't he?" she remarked. She didn't know all the details of Klivian's previous meeting with Face and Kell, but it wasn't too difficult to guess who had gotten under his skin. "I promise, you'll remain intact."

“Or at least what's left of me?" Klivian joked. "Very well. I accept your gracious offer. Shall we?” He offered his elbow grandly with a half smile.

Tyria dipped her head in a polite little bow and took his arm. "Lead on."

***

Tyria watched as Klivian slipped into a dreamless slumber, a slight frown still visible on his always-mournful face. She could still feel the echoes of his weary, frustrated grief. Could he be faking even in his sleep? She really didn't think so. Everything he said and did seemed genuine, the actions of a lonely man whose strange luck had stolen from him what little happiness he'd earned.

Tyria looked around, shaking off the remnants of the Force-based flow state she entered when easing someone into sleep. Klivian's bedroom was sparsely furnished. Like most Rebellion-era pilots, he seemed to have few personal belongings. Clothes, datacards, an emergency bag, no knicknacks or extras. No holos of home, which made sense given what Face and Shalla had explained about Ralltiir and Major Klivian's status there. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a few of Major Janson's favorite fidget toys strewn around, given how close the two men had been, but perhaps Klivian had put them away after the Rogues had died.

Still, it was like Klivian didn't expect to stay here. Old habits of a Rebel pilot, used to life on the run? The past few months had certainly been busy enough to warrant that feeling. Or the careful preparation of an undercover agent who might be called home at any moment?

Shaking her head, Tyria turned away. A sufficiently expert actor could be, the Wraiths knew well, indistinguishable from the real article. She could keep second-guessing herself about Klivian's motivations forever, but her gut instinct said the man was genuinely grieving.

Moving silently so as not to wake him, Tyria left Klivian's bedroom and headed toward the front door, then stopped. On the floor, by a pile of large containers, lay Kettch.

Tyria felt like she'd been kicked in the chest. The life-size toy Ewok lay tumbled on the floor, facedown and askew. Tears pricked her eyes and she bit her lip. Seeing Kettch here… it brought everything back. General Antilles, the best pilot of a generation, a magnificent leader whose staid demeanor belied the wicked sense of humor he used to bring out the best in his pilots. And Major Janson, sunny and deadly and competent and understanding all by turns… they'd done so much for her, for Kell, for all the Wraiths who were now her closest friends. And now they were gone.

She moved forward, meaning to pick up the fallen toy and set him back on top of the pile of boxes, but once she reached the spot where Kettch lay, Tyria paused. 

It didn’t seem… right. She knelt down, gently touching the soft fur on Kettch’s head. Tyria was hit with the force of a keening loss, hit so hard she almost physically rocked backward. It wasn't _fair_. It… She let out a quiet sob, bringing both hands up to cover her mouth.

Kettch -- oh, Kettch. The toy was infused with all the grief and suffering of his master's loss. Tyria blinked away her tears. She'd never see them again, never hear Janson's laugh or puzzle over one of Commander Antilles's orders. They were gone.

Tyria stood, trying to recenter herself. Kettch didn't… want to be picked up. All right. "I'm sorry," she told the toy softly, looking down at it. Then, a little awkwardly, she murmured, "Take good care of Major Klivian, okay? I think he needs somebody." She was talking to a mere mass of cloth and fluff, but… the feelings had been so visceral.

Tyria turned and went to the front door. She'd walk back to the Wraiths' home base. It wasn't too far, and perhaps the Coruscant smog and showers would help clear her head. She needed to be somewhere else.

***

Face looked up dubiously from Tyria's report. "And then you rifled through his belongings? Planted some bugs? Found his secret spy journal? Please tell me you got something."

“His secret spy journal?” Tyria asked with a raised eyebrow. “No. I looked around. His place is barely lived in but I imagine General Antilles and Major Janson’s are… were similar.”

Face sighed deeply. Some days, he really understood why General Antilles had always seemed so perplexed by Wraith Squadron. "In other words, you're no more convinced he's a traitor than you were before. And as a result, I have no more evidence either way than I did before."

“I used the Force,” Tyria replied. “His emotions are overwhelming and sincerely sad. You can see it in everything he does, the apartment…" she trailed off. "It felt… lonely.” 

"Unless he's just doing that to disarm you," Face muttered, putting his face in his hands. "Fine. I suppose that's the best I'm going to get."

“I know it’s not entirely trustworthy, but it felt real. He didn’t try to hurt me, he didn’t say anything suspicious. I think he's genuine." Tyria frowned. "You’ve trusted my hunches before, Face. Why is this time different?” 

That was… a good question. Face knew he always encouraged his team to trust their instincts. The Wraiths' unpredictable nature was their biggest asset in the field. And Tyria especially, with her connection to the Force, had often given him insights that tipped the balance of a risky mission.

"I don't know," he admitted frankly, looking up at her. "I'm sorry, Tyria. All the hard evidence we have, including your Force insights, points toward Klivian being clean. But something feels wrong. Why was he the one to survive? Antilles has skill, Janson has luck. Had." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. The two pilots who'd mentored him, helped shape him into the leader the Wraiths needed… it hadn't seemed like their luck would ever run out. And now, without warning, they were gone. 

Tyria looked at him with a frown. “I’d say Klivian feels much the same.” 

Face leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Maybe he does. It just feels… wrong." He sighed. 

Tyria shrugged her shoulder. “That's fair. I'm sorry I didn’t dig around. But he trusts me. It might be useful. If I need to, I might be able to get close again.” 

"It might," Face agreed. "Depending how things go, that could be worth more than any intel you could have found in his apartment."

“Let’s hope so,” Tyria said. “Is there anything else?”

Face shook his head. "We'll just keep monitoring him and hope to shake something loose."

Tyria nodded. “I’m going for food, if you want to join?”

"Sure," Face said. "It'll probably be good for me to take a break."

“We’re not going to that place you chose last time. I don’t care how good the braised nerf is.”

Face laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Your turn to pick, I promise."


	5. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbie was going to be alone a lot more from now on.

It had been weeks since Sarkin put him to sleep. Every day was the same as the others. He’d pass out, have the same nightmare, then wake up again. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Hobbie had tried everything and he didn’t think he’d ever sleep a full night again. He leaned against the kitchen counter, holding the warm tea cup in his hands. He needed to stop lingering. 

He had to let Wes go.

Hobbie hadn’t put him to rest yet. He had put everyone else to rest -- Nrin, Gavin, Ooryl -- taking time to remember each one and honor them in a way they would have appreciated. There had been no one else to share the moments with, but in little ways, one at a time, he'd managed to have the funeral he wanted for the Rogues. All but one.

Wes. He hadn't… he hadn't been able to let go. Every time he'd considered it, he'd told himself he'd do it later. He'd put it off over and over again, telling himself he'd mourn Wes when things were more settled. When he felt ready to move on. But every night, he had the same nightmare of floating alone in space, dead, abandoned. Was that how Wes felt, now, in the afterlife? Because Hobbie was still holding onto him? His closest friend and he couldn’t even do him the decency of letting him rest! 

His eyes found Kettch, still lying on the floor where Hobbie had thrown him, and he knew what he should do. He finished the cup of tea, aching with loss. He had to let Wes go. 

Hobbie walked over to where Kettch was lying, face down. He picked up the toy and looked at it. “Wes would be upset that I threw you,” Hobbie muttered, breaking the silence for the first time in days. “I hope he knows I’m not sorry.” He buried his face into the soft fur, hugging the toy Ewok tightly. Hobbie lost track of how long he stood there.

“Wes was my friend,” Hobbie started, the words coming in ebbs and flows. “We met in medical, both unable to fly, both just waiting to die while those who could fly went against the Death Star. We… instead, we won and here…” he trailed off, almost saying 'here we are'. “Here I am. But Wes and I became fast friends. Maybe it was loneliness on his part… I don’t know…” Hobbie paused. “I asked a few times. I’m not… I’m a bit of an asshole, you see… but he’d always just roll his eyes, say 'because we're friends, Hobbs'," his voice broke as he remembered. After a few minutes, he managed to start talking again. "Then drag me off to do something.” Hobbie turned out the lights in his apartment and took Kettch to bed with him. He wrapped up in his sheet and blanket, feeling slightly silly for a moment. What was he doing? Kettch was just a stuffed toy. 

But he had been so important to Wes. Half a joke, half a symbol, the care that Wes put into the toy was there. Wes didn’t really care for having many things. As long as he had his friends, his collection of pillows and blankets, and Kettch, he was set. All the former Rebel pilots were a bit like that. Too used to losing and getting things ripped away, he supposed. 

Hobbie sighed tiredly, knowing that sleep would only come when he was exhausted and he might as well start talking. “Sometimes I wonder what we would’ve all been like had we not joined the Rebellion. Or I hadn’t left Ralltiir. I’m sure they all would have found each other if there was a Rebellion…” Wes would’ve definitely followed Wedge anywhere. Tycho couldn’t have not defected. Hobbie was the only one that no one would have missed. Sure, he was useful, they liked him but… he only defected because Tycho's guidance showed him how things truly were. Kriff, he was weak. 

“Wes made friends with everyone. I’m not really… that sort of person. But because I was always in his shadow, I made friends too,” he trailed off. That was and wasn’t true. He actually did make friends all by himself. He had thawed quite a bit but still. Unlike Wes, he was content to be alone. Hobbie was going to be alone a lot more from now on. “Well, I did bring Tycho in. We were friends before joining the Rebellion…” Hobbie paused, squeezing Kettch tight. It hurt thinking about them. 

“I was so glad to see Tycho," he continued. "I had thought about him often. Wondering if he had been shot by the Imperials or died because one of us shot him,” he said. “TIE pilot training is very dehumanizing. It’s about putting the Empire first, to be prepared to die for the Empire’s glory, but he still… he made me feel more human that I had before. I don’t know if I would’ve rebelled if he hadn’t shared his stories about Alderaan. Everyone grew up so differently than I did. One thing for the Academy… it definitely opened my eyes to reality outside of Ralltiir.”

Hobbie paused, knowing that his homeworld wasn’t a place for him. It was times like this that it hurt, just a little bit. Suddenly another thought came to mind and he frowned. “You know. It just strikes me… you’re a bit of a Wraith, aren’t you?” Hobbie looked at the toy and considered. He kept… Whenever he was out, he swore that he kept seeing them. Lurking. Then there was the thing with Sarkin. Was he imagining them? Hobbie yawned and glanced at Kettch. Were they watching over him for Wes? That seemed like something they’d do. He closed his eyes, chest aching. How did Wes always drive so many to have such deep loyalty to him?

The Rogues had been his family. Hobbie could be as uncomfortable with the idea as he wanted but it didn’t make it less true. Wedge was their First. Tycho their Second… he let out a small gasp. He was their Third. Quietly supportive, ready to help, trained to step in wherever he was needed and just be there for them. He was a Third. Obviously it was far different than what he grew up with and around but he was a Third for this family too. 

No. He was the First now. He had to be the First of the Squadron. Of his family. He had been trained at home to take over as either a First or a Second, because of how his siblings had both suffered from a rare childhood genetic condition. That experience lent itself to leadership, and he had taken over as Rogue Leader or acted as the squadron's second in command more than once. He felt that weight settle over him. Hobbie needed to take responsibility for them now.

He shifted, turning over in bed. Hobbie bit his lip and considered Wes. If he was the squadron's Third, what did that make Wes? Wes had no place in a Ralltiiri family. No one dared to have more than three children. The third child was enough of a blight; to have a fourth, unheard of. No, Wes hadn't been part of their family the same way. He'd been more than that. 

It was Wes who'd brought them all together. The Rogues, the Wraiths… wherever he went, Wes turned strangers into friends and friends into family. Some of that was deliberate; when they'd been training new squadrons together at Sluis Van, Hobbie had seen the little psychological tricks Wes used to help their trainee pilots bond into coherent flying units. But so much of it was just… Wes, being Wes. Liking people, drawing them to him. 

And Hobbie… somehow, Hobbie had been more than just another person caught up in that. He didn't know how or why, but Wes had acted like he saw something special in Hobbie. They'd shared a bond so close Hobbie had no words for it. "We were so close," he said haltingly to Kettch. "Closer than anyone, maybe. Except Wedge?" Wedge and Wes had been close, their pilot-and-gunner relationship from Hoth extending through every aspect of their lives, but Hobbie's bond with Wes had been… something different.

"We were wingmates," he said firmly. They'd had each other's backs. Even when they were separated, they'd always known where they stood with each other. Wes had buoyed Hobbie out of his worst depressive slumps, and Hobbie had anchored Wes from spiraling off out of control. Wes had been the heart of the squadron, and for Hobbie… well. He'd been Hobbie's person. There wasn't anyone else. He had been friends with Tycho and Wedge but.... Wes was Wes. 

With a sigh, he curled around Kettch, pretending, just a bit that Wes was still here and they were cuddling. Hoth Protocol, he thought sleepily, remembering how the surviving Rogues ever since Hoth had made a habit of crawling into each other's beds for warmth and comfort. He could have this.

***

_Harsh breathing filled his ears as his eyes fluttered open. He was weightless, floating in the void as the starfield twinkled around him. The guts of a destroyed X-wing were suspended, hanging around him and bouncing off his mag field. He was going to die here._

Hobbie sat up, covered in sweat, his hand sinking into Kettch’s fur. He gasped for breath, the feeling of loneliness rising to choke him. His eyes scanned the dark room while he oriented himself to his surroundings. He was home. Not in zero grav. Why was he still having the dream? Hobbie slowly caught his breath before he started feeling annoyed. Why the kriff was he still having the dream?! Was he ever going to sleep a full night again? Hobbie sighed and tossed the covers off, knowing better than to just try to sleep. Looks like he was going on another run. 

***

"We should have found _something_ ," Face muttered, leaning against the wall near Aki's array of computer terminals.

"Well, his financials are completely clean," Aki said, tapping on various keys. "Piggy and I just finished running another check, correlating with the rest of the slicers and number-crunchers over in Intel. If anybody has been funneling money to Klivian through his investments, they're a lot better at hiding it than anybody on our side is at tracking it down. Which seems unlikely."

Face nodded. "Yeah, if Piggy says the numbers are clean, then the numbers are clean. No offense, Aki." He half-smiled at her.

Aki chuckled. "None taken. There's always a better slicer out there somewhere, but Piggy is one of a kind."

"So he's not getting paid, or not in any traceable way," Face mused. "He hasn't communicated with anyone suspicious, that we can tell. And Tyria's convinced he's genuine." Tyria, Piggy… all the Wraiths, except Face, seemed to be more and more convinced that Klivian was genuine. Even Shalla's mutterings about Ralltiiri thirdborns had a general, speculative tint.

Face just… couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Klivian shouldn't have survived. There was something they were overlooking, he knew it. Weeks of surveillance -- the Wraiths were going to get pulled off this wild nek hunt fairly soon if they couldn't produce something, that was for sure, and he couldn't let Klivian get away with murdering the Rogues and taking over their legacy. 

"We have to shake things up," Face said, frustrated. "We're never going to be able to prove anything this way."

Aki glanced at another of her terminals. "Well, you're in luck," she said. "Klivian just woke up."

***

Of course, he couldn't just confront Klivian. Face disguised himself, working quickly but carefully, and followed the man at a distance. Another practiced spy would notice him immediately. A grieving pilot… well. Face knew better than to underestimate the skills of the ex-Rebels he worked with. Still…

Face shadowed Klivian through three Coruscant parks. Was the man deliberately ignoring him? Finally, Klivian approached. Face had to admit he did look kind of terrible. Those dark circles under his eyes weren't makeup.

Klivian sat down, turning his head to look at him. "Loran. Playing with disguises again, I see." He looked unimpressed under the pallor. 

Face shrugged mildly. "It's what I do." Was Klivian taunting him or just being his usual sardonic self? "Finally emerged from your lair, I see. A little the worse for wear?"

Klivian gave him a look. "Cut the shavit. You've been following me all morning. Why?"

"Efficient as ever," Face said. Well, he could be blunt and efficient too. "Because I want answers, Third."

Surprise and fear flickered across Klivian's face as he narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't aware you knew about Ralltiiri culture. How are you so sure?" 

Face smiled slightly, validated. *Gotcha.* It was sloppy of Klivian to use his true planetary origin for this identity. "It's obvious, isn't it?" he said lightly. "Unwanted, unwelcome, antisocial. What else could you be?"

Klivian looked at him like he'd been slapped. He pressed his lips firmly. "Well, if my sister hadn't come out first, a Second."

Face scoffed. "You. A Second." He shook his head, dismissing the idea. "You've got an interesting history, you know, Klivian. No records till you joined the Imperial academy. Stole a training frigate when you defected -- instant trust from the Rebellion, of course. Survived Yavin, survived Hoth, survived Distna, all by unlikely coincidence." He sneered, letting Klivian see the contempt Face felt for him. Maybe this wasn't the smartest tactic, but he had to do something. "What makes you so special?"

Klivian stared at him. "Nothing. Nothing makes me special."

_Hutt spit_. "Really. Because we both know that the only way Thirds leave Ralltiir is if they're sold to Imperial Intelligence as children and raised to be spies." This was… very possibly how Face was going to die. Assassinated in a park by an underslept Imperial agent trying to protect his cover. But Aki knew where he was, and Klivian couldn't avoid the rest of the Wraiths forever.

Klivian’s jaw dropped. “That… That’s what happened to them?” he asked quietly.

Face blinked. He'd expected Klivian to have a well-thought-out lie, but not to deny all knowledge. This quiet, shocked horror… it felt real. Like the reaction of a man suddenly realizing he'd had a narrow escape. It didn't feel like something an Imperial agent would come up with. Maybe -- could Tyria and the others have been right? Was Klivian just a grieving pilot whose strange luck had ripped away the only true family he had? All the evidence seemed to point in that direction.

But the more Face considered that possibility, the more something felt off about it. There wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but… Klivian had survived, alone out of his squadron. That didn't necessarily mean he was guilty of anything. Myn Donos, now dead himself with the Rogues, had survived an ambush that wiped out his first squadron. But for Klivian, already half mechanical, to survive something that killed Wedge Antilles? There had to be treachery involved somewhere. Face owed it to the Rogues to uncover the truth. He couldn't let himself be fooled the way everyone else had been.

Face shook his head. "You're very good, Klivian," he said. "I'll give you that. But your lies won't work on me." Poke the sleeping rancor, why not.

Klivain looked at him uncomprehending. “I’m not lying. What do you want, Loran?”

"Just one thing," Face said coldly. He wasn't likely to get an answer, but… this had been bothering him for a while. "Did you at least have the decency to kill Janson first, or did he have time to realize you'd betrayed him before he died?"

Klivian went stiff and furious, glaring at Face. “How dare you?!” he asked in a voice like ice-cold steel.

"I dare because nobody else will!" Face snapped. He was sick of this dance. "You're a founding Rogue. You're trusted implicitly. Oh, poor Major Klivian, he lost his whole squadron, of course we should give him command," he mocked. "Please. You survived an ambush that killed Wedge kriffing Antilles?" He rolled his eyes. "At least try to make it _plausible_. You're getting sloppy, Klivian."

Klivian closed his eyes. “You had to know Wedge wasn’t invincible. He was exceptional but he wasn’t invincible.” 

"He was better than you," Face retorted.

“Who wasn’t, according to you?” Klivian told him. “But guess who’s left?"

"My point exactly," Face said. Klivian was really being insufferable.

Klivian glared at him. "I’m not the one you should be going after. I’m not a spy and if you accuse me again, I will take my arm off and beat you with it.” 

Face raised his eyebrows. He suspected Klivian might actually make good on that threat. It didn't prove anything one way or the other, but it was certainly creative. "Just remember I'm watching you," he said, getting up. He was almost certainly painting a target on his own back here, but someone had to be the bait.

Klivian raised a slender finger, making a rude Corellian gesture. Face rolled his eyes and turned away. Klivian might have won this round, but Face wasn't about to give up.

***

The tapcafe was quiet but busy, the low sound of music barely noticeable once you were inside. It soothed Hobbie’s extremely tired brain. He held his caf and was half-watching the holonews, not quite ready to leave yet.

“Klivian, hey.” 

Hobbie jumped, annoyed and extremely tired. He turned, ready to give whatever Wraith it was this time a piece of his mind. “You Wraiths really need to back off!”

“I’m not a Wraith!” Dorset Konnair said, hands up. She looked surprised at him as he winced. 

“Kriff. I-- Sorry. Sorry for yelling. I’ve been having some trouble with the Wraiths lately,” he said, giving her a sour look.

“Sounds rough, buddy,” Dorset told him. She pointed to a table. “Wanna talk about it?”

Hobbie hesitated and shrugged. Why not? He followed her and took the seat across from her. “I do want to apologize. They’ve just been intersecting a lot in my life lately.”

“It’s fine. I just wanted to say hi and see how you were.” Dorset gave him an amused look. “Leave it up to Janson to try to take care of you after he’s gone.”

Hobbie frowned at her. Not exactly. They thought he killed Wes. ”You’d think so but, not so much. I’m sure he would try but they’re…” he shook his head.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Klivian. They’re probably just trying to deal with things too.” Dorset shrugged. “So, how are you? I ask because, buddy, you look like crap.”

He snorted. “Nice. It just so happens I feel like crap so good to know."

"I'm sorry. Watching you on that dais was pretty hard.”

“Being up there was worse, trust me.” Hobbie said with a dour look. 

Dorset huffed and nodded. “Yeah, I bet. I’m sorry it happened. They were among the greats.”

“They really were. I’m going to hopefully continue that once I put the Rogues back together.”

“No retirement then?” Dorset asked, looking pleased.

“Absolutely not. Rogue Squadron is important. Their legacy won’t be forgotten.” Hobbie told her. He took a sip of his drink.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said, her eyes eager. “When you’re picking and choosing, hit up my CO. I’d like to throw my hat in.”

“You got it. I think you’d make a fair Rogue,” Hobbie told her. If he ever got back on duty...

“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. Thank you.”

Hobbie smiled. “Well, I appreciate what you said. Plus you’re pretty good.” He waggled his hand from side to side.

Dorset rolled her eyes. “Drink your drink. I gotta get back to base.”

Hobbie waved as she got up. “Thanks for inviting me over.”

“My pleasure! I’ll see you around,” Dorset told him.

“Take it easy.”

Hobbie watched her go and stood up. He glanced around and left the tapcafe.

 

***

The sim room was crowded, bustling with personnel. Wedge glanced around, nodding in approval, as he picked out a few of his pilots; their joint mission with Isard's pilots would launch in just a few days, and most of the Rogues were spending their time practicing with the TIE Defender simulators, as they had been for the past several weeks.

After a moment, he spotted Wes, whose broad shoulders and short stature set him apart even more than usual in the snug black TIE flightsuits. Wes was leaning against one of the simulators with his back to Wedge, apparently watching the overhead viewscreen that showed the simulation in progress.

Wedge headed over, ducking and squeezing between Imperial pilots. "Hey, Wes," he said when he was close enough.

Wes turned. Not startled or wary, but his stance was more… formal, more poised, than Wedge was used to seeing from him. "Hey," he said with a slight nod.

Wedge leaned against the sim pod, facing him. "How are you holding up?"

Wes shrugged a little. "Gavin's doing better, I think. Horn's been really good for him. I wouldn't have picked him out to mentor the kid, but it seems to be working." His deep brown eyes flickered as he considered the squadron roster. "Tycho's holding it together better than I'd hoped. He's tough. The Imps are still a little uneasy around Nrin and Qrygg, but that's--"

"Wes," Wedge said gently, interrupting with a raised hand. As he'd suspected, Wes was distracting himself from Hobbie's death by throwing himself into work. It was good for the squadron to have his tireless emotional support while they were all trapped here, but even Wes had to falter eventually. "Wes. How are _you_ feeling?"

Wes went quiet, seeming to pull in on himself for a moment. He bowed his head. "I don't know," he admitted softly. Wedge waited for him to say something more, but he didn't.

"Walk with me," Wedge suggested. Wes nodded a bit and followed him, still subdued, and they made their way out of the sim room.

The hangar was less crowded, though techs bustled around the TIEs doing final checks and preparations. Since this base was on a planet, the hangar had blast doors rather than merely a magcon field, and was considerably warmer than the shipside hangar bays Wedge was used to. He found an out-of-the-way spot near the solar arrays of a TIE that wasn't currently being serviced.

Wes leaned against the solar array. "Does it matter?" he asked simply. "The only way out of here is through."

Wedge sighed in regretful agreement. "Just a little longer now," he said.

Wes nodded tautly, looking at the floor, silent. Wedge leaned sideways against Wes's shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist, hugging him. He wished he could give Wes some respite. Just a few moments free of Imperial surveillance, a breathing space to grieve. Time away from the weight of his squadron's emotional needs.

_Just a few more days_ , Wedge told himself. He trusted Wes to hold it together for as long as they needed him to. "Just a few more days," he promised softly.

***

The memory of events was fuzzy and seemed just out of reach. His X-wing was shot. Hobbie thought he remembered that. Then he woke up in the bacta tank. That was all that he could remember. He poured himself a cup of caf and considered it. Why didn’t he remember? Why did everything feel like it was waiting for him? He was ready. Hobbie had mourned them and they were at peace. It was time. He put his cup down then pulled himself up onto the countertop, picking up his cup once he’d settled, and drank his caf. He finished his first cup and was pouring a second as his comlink went off. Hobbie quickly put the carafe down.

"Klivian here," he said, picking the comlink up from the countertop next to him.

"Major, this is General Cracken," said a gruff voice. 

"Sir," Hobbie said, saluting automatically even though Cracken couldn't see him through the comlink. Why was the head of Intelligence calling him personally?

"I'd like to meet with you as soon as possible. Sivantlie Base, briefing room aurek-twelve."

"Of course, Sir. Any reason?” Hobbie asked. 

"Not over this channel," Cracken said dryly. "I'll explain when you arrive."

Hobbie frowned. So it was something serious then. “Yes, Sir. I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.” 

"I'll be waiting," the General said. "Cracken out."

***

The briefing room smelled of stale caf and fuel, like most pilot briefing rooms. It was large enough for several squadrons to gather in at once if necessary -- almost too open for Airen's taste, but the size of the room gave him more options.

The Wraiths' suspicions were logical. Almost all Thirdborns who escaped the planet Ralltiir did so as children, sold to Imperial Intelligence. For Klivian to have survived to adulthood and only then been sent to Imperial service, and as a pilot rather than a spy… Airen had already cleared the man once, nearly ten years ago when Klivian and Biggs Darklighter had defected to the Rebel Alliance with the training frigate _**Rand Ecliptic**_ , but he hadn't had the resources as a Rebel -- or the knowledge of Ralltiir's closed culture -- that the fully-fledged New Republic could offer him now.

If Klivian was a spy, if they'd had a traitor in the midst of Rogue Squadron for nearly ten years... well! It couldn't be helped, that was all. The past was past. Someone had to be detached here. The Wraiths were too emotionally involved; Airen didn't usually exert too much control over their operations, knowing they functioned best when they were allowed to do things in their own peculiar manner, but Loran especially was determined to prove Klivian guilty.

Klivian walked into the briefing room. He looked harried and confused. The deep black circles under his eyes spoke of his perpetual exhaustion, worse than usual since Distna. Airen sealed the room behind him; no reaction. Interesting.

Klivian walked down the stairs and stopped a couple of meters away. "Reporting as requested, General," he said with a salute. His eyes were red and slightly hazy. 

Airen wondered how functional Klivian was right now. The Wraiths' surveillance data proved the man hadn't been sleeping well. "Take a seat, Klivian," he said, not unkindly. "How are you holding up?"

Klivian took a seat and looked attentive. “I’m doing as well as possible,” he said, then lowered his gaze. “But I have a responsibility to them now.” He sounded thoughtful, sad. Missing his friends? Burdened by the weight of the Rogue command? Or a skillful actor faking those emotions? Klivian looked back up and met Airen's eyes again. “I’m ready to get back to duty, Sir.”

Airen nodded. "I imagine you would be," he said. "You've been off duty for what, six weeks now?"

"Yes, Sir," Klivian replied. "I'm ready. I know… I know what a loss this is, has been… but I need to do right by them."

Fair enough. "Come with me," Airen said. "I have something to show you."

"Yes, Sir." Hobbie stood up and followed him.


	6. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the edge.

Wes reached across the table, trying to grab another datacard that lay near Tycho's elbow, but Tycho batted his hand away without even looking. "Congratulations, you won," he said. "No more datawork for you."

"I'm booooored," Wes complained, fidgeting in his uncomfortable hospital chair. He _was_ bored. Quarantine was boring. "I finished all my datawork, and there's nothing else to do."

"Go watch the Holonet," Tycho suggested unsympathetically.

Wes crinkled his nose. "It's Corran's hour to set the channel. I don't want to watch Corran's show."

Wedge looked up with the expression of patient concern he wore more and more often these days. "Wes, you need a break," he said. "I know you don't think so, but you do. Go do _something_ for fifteen minutes, I don't care what, as long as nobody gets injured. Then I'll assign you another portion of datawork." The table was piled high with datacards and datapads; there was certainly enough to go round, though they'd finished a good deal of it already.

"Fine," Wes grumbled. "I'll go take a shower with all my clothes on, just you watch." He stuck out his tongue at Wedge.

"Just make sure you empty your boots out afterwards," Tycho said mildly. "Wouldn't want you to mildew."

Wes stuck out his tongue at Tycho too, but got up and pushed his chair in.

He didn't really feel like causing much upheaval, though. He'd been focusing so intensely on getting home that he hadn't thought about what might happen afterwards. None of them had realized they'd probably be quarantined, in case Isard was using them as a disease vector.

At least he'd been able to wheedle one of the medical droids into bringing him a few small toys. He took the little box from the common room where the other pilots were gathered, down the short hallway that divided the sleeping area on one side from the freshers on the other, into the long narrow visiting area, where a transparisteel wall separated them from the outside world.

Sitting down at one of the empty tables there, he picked out a bright yellow plasteel disc, broad as his palm and thin as a datacard, weighted at the edges, with a long loop of blue string running through two holes near its center. Hooking his fingers through ends of the string loop so that the disc balanced in the center, he twirled the toy vigorously for a few seconds, twisting the string around itself, then pulled his hands apart, untwisting the string again. Just as it finished untwisting, he brought his hands closer together, letting the disc continue its spin and wind the string the other way. When the string could twist no further, he pulled his hands apart again, reversing the disc's spin and sending it twisting the other way. He could continue this pattern for hours; something about the motion, the heft and inertia of the spinning disc, the way the activity occupied his hands and brain and eyes, was infinitely soothing to him.

He missed Hobbie. He didn't want to think about that, not until he was safely home and could allow himself the luxury of grief, but -- he missed Hobbie. They had been so much a part of each other's lives for so long. If Hobbie were here, they could hassle Corran about his Holonet crime procedural, confuse the youngsters with outdated Rebel jokes, pester Wedge and Tycho into cheering up. Alone, he didn't really have the heart to do any of those things.

At least they'd avenged him. Wes stared past the spinning disc at the surface of the table, no longer seeing it. They'd killed Isard for good. They'd destroyed everything she was trying to do, kept her from causing any more harm. He and Inyri had taken most of her pilots' pay at the card table, too; Wes thought Hobbie might be a little proud of that.

He blinked back a stinging in his eyes and glanced at the wall chrono. Not even five minutes. If Wedge would just give him some more datawork now, he wouldn't have to think about anything except forms and numbers and filling everything out correctly. He jerked at the string in frustration, trying to make the disc spin faster, and instead stopped it spinning altogether.

For a few seconds, Wes just scowled at the toy, pushing down an urge to scream. Dragging in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he managed to settle himself. Two more weeks, he could stay functional for two more weeks. It wasn't as all-imperative as it had been while they were held essentially captive, but his squadron still needed him. He had to be strong enough for them. He had to.

The door chime sounded, signaling that someone had entered the visitors' area on the other side of the transparisteel wall. Wes glanced up, expecting to see someone else from Command -- the high-ups had been in and out chatting with Wedge all day. 

It was Hobbie. Hobbie was standing there, his eyes narrowed and a look of incomprehension on his face.

Wes froze, staring, his hand tightening around the plasteel disc. For one eternal instant, he knew it was over. Hobbie's ghost was here for revenge. Hobbie would walk straight through the transparisteel and the furniture, straight toward Wes, and -- take him away. Wherever traitors went. Bad people who abandoned their friends. He'd just reach out a cold hand and Wes wouldn't be able to escape. He almost didn't want to. He'd left his best friend behind, dead and alone; he deserved whatever was about to happen to him.

But Hobbie didn't walk through the wall. He shook himself, glancing back towards the hallway where General Cracken was standing just barely within sight, then made his way towards the wall. Hobbie stopped at one of the little comm kiosks and picked up a headset, and Wes's rational brain kicked back in. Hobbie wasn't wearing a flightsuit, just a beige day uniform. He looked tired, not angry. His hair was different, and some irreverent corner of Wes's brain whispered that ghosts didn't get haircuts. And somehow, impossibly, he looked alive. His skin was pale as always, but not corpse-blue or ethereal.

That couldn't be right. It couldn't be. Hobbie was dead. Wes shook his head, trying to clear it. Hobbie was dead. He couldn't be here. Wes squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away. He couldn't start hallucinating, not now. He had to be sane for his friends. He had to keep himself together.

He opened his eyes. Hobbie was still standing there, outside the transparisteel, by the comm kiosk. But now, Wedge and Tycho were headed toward him. Wes shook his head again, tense; that couldn't be Hobbie, Hobbie was dead, Wes had abandoned him. Wes had killed him. But Hobbie was standing there. Somebody, at any rate, was standing there, and Wes's curiosity drove him to go and see who Wedge and Tycho thought it was.

Mourning lines, he realized as he approached. Hobbie had put mourning lines in his hair. Kriff. Was he really alive? Had he been alive, all alone?

Wedge sat down at the little walled-in desk on their side of the transparisteel and switched the comm unit over to its speaker setting. "Hobbie!" he said, sounding happy but slightly confused. "You're alive?"

Wes's heart jolted in his chest. Wedge thought it was Hobbie standing there? Were they both hallucinating? That didn't make any sense. Could… could Hobbie somehow be alive? He leaned over the side of the comm kiosk, propping his chin on his crossed wrists, trying to look casual, though his heart was stuttering in his chest with hope he didn't dare let himself feel.

Hobbie nodded, still looking at them. “I’m alive,” he said, sounding dazed. “I’m alive,” Hobbie repeated, stronger this time. “More to the point, you’re alive too,” he said, looking at them in disbelief. 

Kriff, how… how… _Hobbie?_ Wes spread his arms wide and plastered himself against the transparisteel as if trying to hug the entire visiting area and Hobbie with it. "We're alive," he said, his voice shaking a little. Hobbie… Hobbie was alive? How? He felt like he had to be dreaming.

"How did you survive?" Wedge asked. "Not that I'm complaining, but we thought for sure that you were dead."

Hobbie smiled slightly, still looking at them. “I might’ve been,” he said, losing the smile. He lowered his eyes regretfully. “Booster found me among the wreckage… I was the only one alive he found.” 

"I'm sorry," Wes said softly. "But I'm glad he found you." Hobbie was alive. Hobbie was _alive_. Wes hadn't lost him after all. 

"It's good to see you, Hobbie," Tycho agreed. "We missed you."

"Not as much as I've missed you," Hobbie said, pulling out the chair on his side of the kiosk and sitting down. He frowned. "Wait. Why are you in there?"

"A completely gratuitous political gesture," Wedge said. "Officially, there's a fear that we might be carriers for one of those nasty viruses Isard liked to engineer."

"Unofficially," Tycho said, "we're only scheduled to be in here for two weeks." 

"Which is no time at all, as incubation periods for infectious diseases go," Wes informed Hobbie, stepping back from the transparisteel to lean on the side of the comm kiosk again, grinning so hard his face ached. "Besides, if she engineered something we could catch, _she_ might catch it. It's only fun when you're infecting nonhumans." He stuck his tongue out cheerfully.

"So," Wedge concluded, "the real reason we're in here is almost certainly to give Councilor Fey'lya time to claim some sort of credit for our exploits. And possibly to give Command time to arrange a very public welcome-home ceremony."

Hobbie looked at them in disbelief. “Isard was involved? Did she capture you?” he asked. “Is she dead now?” Hobbie asked with a scoff. 

"Didn't anybody tell you _anything?_ " Tycho asked, surprised. Hobbie shook his head.

"Well then," Wedge said. "It turned out there were actually two Isards. One was working with Delak Krennel and laid the bait to bring us to Distna. The other one, who claimed to be the original--"

"I think they were both clones," Wes announced. He felt like he was going to float away on the bubble of joy rising under his ribs. Hobbie was alive. Wes hadn't killed him. Hadn't abandoned him. Hobbie was _here_ , alive, safe.

Wedge gave him an unimpressed look, then sighed. "You know, I wouldn't put it past her. Anyway, the one who wasn't working with Krennel sent a squadron of TIE Defenders to rescue us from the first Isard's trap, and we wound up working with the second Isard and her pilots to bring the first Isard down."

"Then we blew up one of the Isards, and Iella burned down the other," Tycho remarked with satisfaction.

"We're almost as positive those two are dead as we were that the original was dead before," Wes joked. Tycho smacked his shoulder, but he didn't look too unhappy.

“Let’s hope she rests uneasy but stays that way,” Hobbie told them, meeting Tycho’s eyes for a moment. He looked at them all and smirked. “Still, speaking of completely gratuitous political gestures, you’re going to despise your funeral.”

"Ooh," Wes said, grinning at Wedge. Wedge rolled his eyes.

Hobbie’s smirk widened. “It was completely everything you hate. Which I agree wholeheartedly. But I was forced to sit while they droned on and on about how much your leadership turned the tide, how much suffering we all did to both triumph over the Empire and continue our fight, and how legendary you all were. It was torture. I’m almost certain that no one knows my name anymore. Fey’lya called me the Last Rogue so many times, I think I forgot my own name for a few minutes there.”

Wes smirked. “You forgot your real name before you ever joined the Rebellion, Hobbs.”

“H-00813,” Tycho said with a grin. Hobbie shook his head and rolled his eyes. 

“Isn’t it Dar or Darven?” Wedge teased, giving Hobbie a crooked grin.

“Neither,” Hobbie replied. “You all lose. They put all these empty chairs into a V formation and left me at the lead position. Not that I haven’t been but...” he shook his head.

Tycho winced. “That’s cold. Pushing you into leader position at our funeral.”

Hobbie gave them a very tired look. “Well, Rogue Squadron is the New Republic’s shining lightsaber after all. You can’t expect them to wait long to replace us.” 

Wes snorted. "I imagine not," he said. "We'll have to turn pirate again. No place left for us in civilized society."

Wedge rolled his eyes fondly at Wes. "Is the new Rogue Squadron operational yet?" he asked Hobbie. "Nobody's mentioned anything about it yet."

"Maybe they put things on hold once they got our message a couple of weeks ago planning the big battle," Tycho suggested.

"More importantly," Wes said, "are you Rogue Leader, or did you manage to duck out?"

"I am nominally. But I've been off duty since your funeral," Hobbie said. "I don't mind the work but it's yours, Wedge."

"Once we're out of here," Wedge said, smiling.

"I noticed your haircut," Tycho said, pointing at his own head. Wes half smiled, remembering how he'd helped Tycho cut his hair and put in mourning lines for Hobbie and Asyr. And Hobbie had put in mourning lines for them.

Hobbie smiled sadly. "It was the least I could do. I… I did something for everyone. Having a Corellian wake is not the greatest idea alone. But two of your Wraiths stopped me from getting alcohol poisoning. Although, I'd argue my tolerance is extremely high."

Inyri laughed behind Wes, making him jump. He hadn't noticed the other Rogues joining them. Wedge switched the comm to broadcast for everyone.

"Your tolerance for rancor shavit, maybe," Inyri suggested, grinning broadly.

“I have been Wes’s wingmate for several years but I meant for poison,” he said, smiling at her. “Good to see you, Inyri.” 

“Likewise,” Inyri told him. “You cheated death again.”

Hobbie shrugged. “It’s my one gift.” Wes grinned at that. He watched as Hobbie got to his feet, talking to everyone as they expressed their relief and happiness at seeing him. He still looked exhausted, but it was going to be ok. Hobbie wasn't dead. Wes could fix the rest.

***

Hobbie was happy. 

He was so happy, he thought his chest might burst from the joy he felt, the relief that he wasn't alone again. He had his family back. Hobbie wanted to let everyone know but he had to keep it secret and safe for now. He was on another of the city's many walkways, pausing a moment while he felt the overwhelming feeling of joy he was experiencing. Hobbie glanced down at the flying speeders and found them beautiful. No more pitying glances, no more Wraiths haunting his steps. Everything was going to be ok. 

It was so good to have this moment of anonymity as beings went about their nights. He was ok now. Hobbie didn't have to be alone. There was a flutter of anxiety in his chest all of a sudden and he glanced around. Was someone there? Hobbie glanced around as being's faces started to blur in front of him. He hurried home, getting lost in the crowd as the feeling of panic threatened to crush the life out of him. 

Hobbie walked up another flight of stairs when the creeping terror began to drown out everything else. He glanced around, feeling dread and the urge to run. Hobbie hurried up a bit more before he left the stairwell and saw his door. All he had left was to get inside. He'd be safe there. Hobbie went forward, pressing his hand against the reader, and made it inside before falling. 

A starfield filled his view. His hair stood on end. He felt weightless, floating in space. Everything around him was muted as he saw debris floating around him. His harsh breathing was the only sound he heard as he watched a TIE variant he’d never seen before pass him by, more debris being knocked around because of its passing. His eyes followed it as several X-wings formed up with others of the same ships. Terror filled him as he realized what they were doing. They were leaving. His squadron was leaving him to die here! They left him. They left him to die there. He couldn’t remember before but… he remembered now.

Hobbie pushed himself up, ignoring the pricks of pain coming from his organic knee. He didn’t know what to do. They left him. Rogue Squadron left him to die. He couldn’t…no. He wouldn’t go back to them. They’d been so happy to see him, but they left him! Hobbie always had his life-signs transponder fully charged. That TIE variant passed right by him! There’s no way they could’ve not known!

He couldn’t trust them. They betrayed him. They betrayed him, they left him to die, and then they lied to him about it. Hobbie went to his bedroom and pulled out a rucksack, tossing it on the bed, then went to his closet to pack the essentials.

Why had they left him? They had to have known he was alive. That TIE variant passed right by him, more than close enough to pick up the signal from his life-signs transponder. They just hadn't decided he was worth stopping for. He'd been abandoned to die. 

It had to have been Wedge's -- Antilles's idea. Antilles didn't need him. Hobbie was just another piece that could be replaced. An inconvenience. Wes… no. _Janson_. Janson would never question that decision. Not from Antilles. 

The many times that Janson had ditched him for Antilles rose to the surface of his mind. Little things, easily dismissed, but over and over again… It was so obvious, now that his eyes were opened. He was just another plaything to Janson, an idle amusement to while away the time until Antilles needed him. No matter how casually Antilles asked for some small favor, no matter how eagerly Hobbie had been looking forward to something he and Janson had planned together, it had never mattered. Janson would always put Antilles ahead of Hobbie.

This was just another moment in a long series of Hobbie not being important enough to matter. To them, it probably hadn't been any different. It only mattered to him because they killed him. They left him to die because he was inconvenient. 

Even Ty- Celchu must have gone along with it. That stung more than Hobbie would have thought. They'd been friends since the Academy. But it wasn't surprising, he supposed. Everybody got tired of him eventually. He should be more surprised that it had taken this long for their friendship to annoy Celchu enough for the man to let him die.

But the lines. He'd mourned for Hobbie. Had he? Or had he only put the mourning lines in because it was expected? Just another way to signify his innocence if anyone investigated.

Hobbie paused. The investigation. It wasn't about what happened out there. They thought he was guilty! The Wraiths were investigating him because they thought he had turned. Not just the Wraiths, but Cracken and the other high-ups. Something Celchu had said drifted back into his mind: _they got our message a couple of weeks ago_. Command had known the Rogues were alive, and no one had told Hobbie, because he wasn't trusted. Because he was still under suspicion. He'd given the New Republic three of his limbs, ten years of his life, and this was how they repaid his suffering? By labeling him a traitor?!

Hobbie started laughing hysterically as his breaths turned into sobs. It was probably easy. Who needed him? No one. He had never been important to anyone. He had outlived his usefulness yet again and they had tried to kill him for it. Did they even discuss it or were they fine with him being left to die? Had anyone so much as raised a protest?

But he survived!

What a kriffing disappointment for them! Hobbie wiped his eyes, trying to stop his emotional outburst. He was so stupid. So stupid. They had never needed him and he was so weak. His usefulness had ended yet again. Since they hadn't gotten him this time, maybe there would be a training accident. Maybe they'd just have a weapon misfire and kill him that way. Much messier than leaving him to suffocate, but Janson could do it easily without arousing suspicion, and it would be more effective. 

Maybe he should let them. Hobbie sat down on his bed and closed his eyes. He was worthless. They hadn't even managed to kill him because he just survived. He always survived. They were truly his family. Just like his Ralltiiri family, they had tried to get rid of him and he kept surviving. It was time to leave. With shaking hands, he pulled out his datapad and started filling out his resignation. 

They would never consider Antilles a traitor. What was the point of even putting that into a report when Janson would just bury it? Anything to protect his commanding officer. Everyone was complicit.

Hobbie sent the resignation to both Antilles and Celchu, everything filled out perfectly. He couldn't give them another chance. The fact he'd survived this attempt was extraordinary on its own. Hobbie rose to his feet and finished his packing. 

Kettch was staring blankly at him from his bed. Hobbie pulled him out from among the tangled sheets. "You can return to your owner now. Maybe he won't throw you away when he gets bored of you." Janson had treated Hobbie with less consideration than he showed to a lifeless bundle of fluff. He went out to the sitting room, laid the toy on top of their containers -- everything could go back now, they were alive, it didn't matter -- and went to the conservator to grab a drink. 

Hobbie wanted to go back to _Lusankya_ immediately, but he didn't know the exact schedule of the supply shuttles ferrying personnel up to the ship. He'd wait until tomorrow. Hobbie wanted to see them. See their faces when they realized he knew, see how they tried to deny the truth or whether they'd just admit it and laugh. 

He frowned after getting a sudden thought and got to his feet, searching the kitchen. The Wraiths had been here. In his apartment at least twice. His fingers slid over a small device hidden cleverly in one of the shelves, and he picked it up, looking at it. Of course. Tainer and Loran hadn't helped him home that night out of charity. They'd done it so they could put surveillance in his apartment.

Hobbie exhaled and put the listening device back. It wasn't safe. He wasn't safe to be here. Hobbie left the kitchen, grabbed his bag, and left the apartment. He had to find somewhere else to sleep.


	7. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces crumble.

“Face? Face, wake up,” Dia said, touching his shoulder. Face stirred, opening a bleary eye, taking in her beautiful smile as he became alert. He sat up and smiled back.

“I’m awake. Mostly,” Face said. “You look happy. Did we get evidence that Klivian is a spy? Did something good happen?” he asked, wondering if she’d let him pull her into bed. He had just gotten to sleep after a long night surveilling Klivian’s hotel room. He didn’t know why the veteran pilot had gone there, but such a departure from routine was suspicious. But Klivian hadn't seemed to do anything unusual. Just watched holo movies and tried to sleep. 

Dia leaned in and they kissed, Face's arms wrapping around her lithe body. She pulled away slightly, looking into his eyes.

“They’re alive, Face. Myn, Antilles, Janson and the Rogues. They’re alive.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Wait. They’re alive?” Dia nodded, unable to stop smiling. “They’re alive!” he exclaimed, pulling her close again. They clung to each other for a few moments in joy and relief. Maybe this meant they could figure out what was really going on. “Are we allowed to see them?”

“General Cracken cleared it. Runt is prepping the shuttle now. You need to get up, though. Caf is waiting if you hurry.”

“You didn’t bring it to my bedside? Cruel.”

Dia pinched his side. “You’ll see cruel if you don’t hurry up.”

Face kissed her again. “Promises, promises,” he told her then got out of bed. Once he had redressed and cleaned up a bit, they walked together to their building’s shuttle bay. Bettin was waiting outside, holding a travel cup, which he handed to Face. 

Face took the cup of caf and drank greedily. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re my favorite? I feel like I should say that more.”

Bettin gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, Boss, but I know it’s because of the caf. I’ll drop at least five points in your estimation once you’re finished.”

Face scowled at him and walked up the boarding ramp. The rest of his team were waiting, already settled in. Bettin sealed the shuttle, letting Runt know they were set to lift off.

***

Wedge leaned against the wall, taking his fifteen minute break while Wes and Tycho kept working on the masses of datawork. There were reports about their captivity with Isard, of course, but Hobbie apparently hadn't been allowed to do any of the datawork generated by the squadron's apparent death or the preparations to relaunch it, even though he'd officially been set to take command once he was cleared for duty.

It was still extremely early in the morning Coruscant time, early enough that Wedge hadn't yet had an opportunity to speak with anyone about just why Hobbie had been cut out of operations. It didn't make sense. There was no one more capable of leading Rogue Squadron than Hobbie. Hell, Hobbie had _led_ the squadron, more than once. Why hadn't he been officially placed in command?

As soon as Hobbie came back today, if he did, Wedge needed to apologize to him. For leaving, for believing Vessery when he should have checked. He had been too far away from that part of the battlefield to pick up Hobbie's transponder himself. But Vessery had insisted no one else was left alive, and Wedge hadn't pressed the issue, too worried about escaping with his surviving pilots before more enemies arrived. He had allowed his friend to die alone because he trusted their rescuers. 

Was it the same for Asyr, Slee, Lyyr? Except they'd truly died, and Hobbie had somehow defied death once again. Wedge closed his eyes, feeling older than ever. He had to apologize. Make this right. He'd made a command decision, based on all the information available, but he had failed his friend. Wedge really hoped Hobbie did return to see them again today. He might not remember, but he needed to know.

At least Wes was doing better. The man had been fraying at the seams for weeks, and Wedge had been worried he might lose him too once they got home. Truthfully, Wedge was still worried about all of his pilots, but with Hobbie back, he could relax a bit about Wes. Though none of them had had the privacy or freedom to really mourn their fallen. Once they were released and had gotten through whatever political nonsense was required of them, they'd have to take some time to recuperate.

The visitor alert went off and he straightened, seeing Hobbie walk in and put on the comm headset. Wedge took another long look at his friend, still half unable to believe that he'd survived. Wes was already at the comm station with Tycho when Wedge joined them. Wedge paused, taking in Hobbie's stiff posture and the ice-cold expression on his face. And he was wearing black civilian clothes; Wedge had never seen Hobbie wear black that wasn't a flightsuit. Something wasn't right. 

"Hobbs?" Wes asked, uncertainly, leaning over the side of the comm kiosk and turning on the comm unit.

"I know what you did,” Hobbie said. “Very convenient when I didn’t remember."

Wedge gaped at him. No. That wasn’t…

"What a relief, getting away with it," Hobbie continued.

"...no," Wedge managed, half to himself. They hadn't-- he hadn't--

"Silence." Not loud, not sharp, just cold as ice. "This isn't a discussion. You abandoned me to die. I finally remembered, last night. You had to know I was alive. But I wasn't towed in, I wasn't picked up. You left me there."

 _Hobbie… Hobbie, no_. Wedge rubbed his thumb over his first two knuckles, his hand tightening into a fist. He hadn't-- he would have apologized sooner, if only he'd remembered in time. "Hobbie--"

"I saw you jump."

The silence hung icy between them. Wedge could feel his heart beat.

"After all the years we've fought together," Hobbie continued, and something clicked in Wedge's mind. Hobbie wasn't angry, or not primarily. He was sad. Betrayed. Upset. "How much I trusted you. I'm done."

From Wedge's right side, Wes reached toward Hobbie, bumping his knuckles on the transparisteel as if he'd forgotten it was between them. "Hobbie, please," he begged. Kriff, Wes… this was…

"You were my _brothers_ ," Hobbie said, his voice full of betrayal and despair and disgust -- at them for abandoning him, at himself for ever trusting them. For still loving them? Wedge didn't know, couldn't tell. "Guess I should've known better than to trust that," Hobbie continued, shaking his head, half in dismissal, half in self-recrimination. Then he looked up, meeting each of their gazes for a split second. "Have a nice life." He took off the headset and turned away.

For a moment, Wedge sat frozen, staring after Hobbie. His right hand was clenched tight. Hobbie couldn't-- this couldn't happen. Wedge had to apologize.

 _"Hobbie!"_ Wes's scream nearly broke Wedge's eardrums. He jerked away in surprise before recovering. Wes stood, hand pressed against the transparisteel, eyes fixed on Hobbie's retreating back, and the look on his face was… Wedge looked away again. Wes had forgotten in his distress that Hobbie couldn't hear him through the transparisteel. 

Wedge's mind flashed back to the moment when, after the battle, he'd ordered the surviving Rogues to form up and jump to hyperspace. How Wes had cried out, "Wedge," just one word, but so full of pain that it hardly sounded like a sapient voice -- so full of desperate blind faith, pleading with Wedge to somehow make it better, not to force him away from his fallen friend.

Wedge remembered how he himself had simply said, "Wes, please." Firm, gentle, just a touch of steel. That was all it had taken. Wes's trust in him was so absolute that he'd obeyed at once. And Wedge had failed Wes, and in doing so had failed Hobbie -- had caused this rift between them.

He'd wondered over and over since that night: had he made the right decision? Could he have granted Wes a little solace by insisting that Vessery allow the man to do a fly-by of Hobbie's broken X-wing? Had they had time? Would Wes have had the strength to leave the battlefield after seeing Hobbie's dead body floating there?

Now he knew. He had proof. He'd made the wrong decision. He'd trusted Isard's Imperials, not knowing who they were, and he'd left Hobbie helpless in enemy territory. It was a miracle that Krennel's forces hadn't captured Hobbie before Booster ever arrived at the battle site. Kriff. Had Asyr been captured? Lyyr? Slee? Were they truly dead, or had he failed them as well?

Someone was crying, noisy wrenching sobs. Wes, it had to be. Wedge glanced over. He couldn't see Wes past the side of the comm kiosk, but Tycho was crouched down by Wedge's chair, obviously trying to comfort Wes. Thank the Force for Tycho; Wedge couldn't offer Wes anything right now. He had blood on his hands.

***

They were in the turbolift up to the quarantine area when it happened. Face wouldn't have noticed at first if he hadn't happened to be looking at Tyria. She shivered and went pale, then looked around a bit, seeming confused. "Did anyone else feel that?" she asked.

Bettin shook his head. "Feel what?"

Tyria shuddered a little, hunching her shoulders. "Cold, dark. Stars. Death. As if death breathed down your neck for a second and then passed by."

Kell put his hand on her shoulder, steadying her. "I definitely didn't feel anything like that," he said. "Are you okay?"

"Something's wrong," Tyria said, shaking her head. "Something is very wrong. I -- oh!" She stumbled and nearly fell. Kell caught her against his chest.

"Tyria?" Kell asked again.

"I can't breathe," Tyria said, sounding lost. "It's too much. Please, somebody help him. Make it stop."

Face frowned. He hadn't seen Tyria this overwhelmed by her Force powers in a long time. "Do you need to go back?"

Tyria shrugged one shoulder a little, wordless. Kell helped keep her upright.

"The quarantine levels used to be Isard's torture chambers, as I understand it," Shalla suggested. "Maybe there's some kind of... residue in the Force that you're feeling."

"I thought Master Skywalker was attempting to remove those psychic traces," Piggy remarked, thoughtful.

Tyria shook her head emphatically. "No. This is fresh."

"We can go back down," Face said again. Tyria looked awful.

Tyria seemed to consider it a moment, then shook her head. "I can handle it."

***

When they arrived in the quarantine viewing area, it took Face a moment to parse what he was seeing into something he could interpret. General Antilles sat at one of the little comm kiosks, looking blank and stunned. Next to the kiosk, on the floor… was that a person sitting? Shaking, maybe crying? He couldn't see much from this angle, just a uniform-clad shoulder.

Tyria pushed past him and went toward the person on the floor. Face headed toward the comm kiosk and switched on the speaker so that all the Wraiths could hear. "General?"

General Antilles flipped the switch on his side and put on the headset. "Captain Loran," he said, obviously trying to sound normal. "It's good to see you."

"You too, sir," Face said. "We missed you. Uh, not to be--" He leaned sideways, getting a better look at the person on the floor -- Tyria was now crouching by the transparisteel with both hands on the window -- and almost lost his balance. "What the kriff?" He regained his footing and sat down rather suddenly in the chair. "Sir, is that _Janson?_ What the hell is going on here? Sir."

Antilles nodded. "Well, for one thing, it seems Hobbie is alive," he said dryly.

Well, Face wouldn't be surprised to see his ebullient trainer crying from joy at Klivian's return, but that… did not seem to be what was happening. "We knew that part," Face said. "He's been under some suspicion of leading the rest of you into a trap."

Antilles thinned his lips. "If he's been under investigation from Intelligence, that would explain how he got so paranoid," he said half to himself. "He seems to believe we deliberately abandoned him over Distna."

Face frowned. "The last I heard, he was claiming he didn't remember anything about the battle."

"That seems to have been part of the issue," Antilles said. "He told us his memories had finally returned, that he regretted ever trusting us, that it was over. He's only just left."

"Maybe we can catch him," Shalla said from over Face's shoulder. Face jumped a little; he'd been so focused on the General that he hadn't really noticed the other Wraiths milling around the visiting area. "Bring him back here. Convince him he's wrong."

"I'd appreciate it," General Antilles said. "We're in here for two more weeks. By that time, if he really is leaving for good…" He shrugged.

"Plenty of time for him to disappear," Aki said. "We should get started."

Face nodded to them, and a few of the Wraiths headed back out toward the turbolift.

"If he saw this, he'd have to realize it isn't normal," Kell said from Face's other side. His voice came from lower down than usual. Face looked over and saw that Kell was now sitting cross-legged by the transparisteel with Tyria in his lap, supporting her as she tried to do… whatever it was she was trying to do through the Force. Offer Janson some comfort, most likely.

Face leaned over again. On the other side of the transparisteel, Colonel Celchu was kneeling next to Janson, reaching out toward him but not touching, his aristocratic face gentle and sad as he muttered soothing words. Janson was obviously trying to pull himself together for the Wraiths, but failing utterly; he'd gasp and sniffle a bit, then break down in floods of tears again. It was… unnerving. For all the man's impulsiveness, Face suddenly realized, he'd never actually seen Janson lose control of his emotions before. Throughout their training, Janson had always been there for the Wraiths, as cheerful and reliable as a sunrise. Face had seen him grim, saddened, empathetic, but always ready to bounce back. Never so utterly grief-stricken.

Tyria drew back from the transparisteel. "I can't get through to him," she said, frustrated. She looked like she had the beginnings of a bad headache. "It's like swimming against a flooded river."

"We're going to try to get Klivian back," Face said. "To offer him my apologies and the General's both. You want to come with, or go home and lie down?" He had misread Klivian so badly. General Antilles was right -- the constant surveillance and distrust from Intelligence had probably contributed to this whole mess.

Tyria's face was pale and pinched, but she set her jaw firmly. "I have a feeling you might need me," she said.

***

Hobbie Klivian walked within the loud spaceport with beings all around him, dressed in black short sleeves and black pants tucked into black boots. With a watchful eye, Hobbie waited for the Wraiths to intercept him. He had no friends any longer; every one he once trusted had left him behind.

A petite, dark-skinned human woman stepped into his path. "Major Klivian," she said with a bright, dimpled smile.

Hobbie stopped and frowned at her. “Not any longer. If you’ll excuse me,” he said as he tried to step around her. She intercepted him, getting in his path. Hobbie stopped entirely. “What do you want?” 

"We want to apologize," Loran said, hurrying up. "I mean, me. I do. I was wrong about you and I caused you a lot of extra trouble and I'm sorry."

“Apology not accepted, get out of my way,” Hobbie told him.

Loran nodded wryly. "That's fair. General Antilles wants to apologize too, though. We'd like to accompany you back there so you can hear what he has to say."

“I don’t think you understand. Let me put it to you simply: No.” Hobbie glared down at them. Other Wraiths were gathering around him, Sarkin and the Twi'lek woman. “Out of my way.”

The dark-skinned woman took hold of his left arm with a practiced fighter's grip. "I'm afraid we can't do that," she said very sweetly.

“Release me at once. Otherwise, Captain Loran,” he said, making eye contact with Loran, "will get the beating that I promised him." He made a fist around his left thumb, popping the joint and priming the release on his prosthetic arm.

"You broke Major Janson," Sarkin blurted out. Hobbie frowned and tilted his head, focusing directly on her. She continued, "He was crying inconsolably. He kept trying to stop and he couldn't. Please, sir, you need to come back and talk to him."

Hobbie looked at them. “Where were you when I was suffering?” he asked simply. “Where were you?”

“We-” Sarkin started. 

“Oh wait,” Hobbie said, interrupting her. “I know where you were! You were spying on me. Thinking that I’d turned, that I’d killed my friends." Loran, he noticed, looked very guilty at that. Good. Too late, but Hobbie still felt a flare of satisfaction. "Well, guess what? They betrayed me. I gave them everything and what did I get for it? Nothing.” He saw the Twi'lek woman give him an odd look. Sympathy? He wasn't sure. Not anger or dismissal. 

Hobbie forged on. “But of course, Janson is sad. So obviously that’s far more important than my feelings. You know how much I’ve let them hurt me because he was sad?" Tyria frowned slightly, shaking her head, opening her mouth a bit as if to reply. Hobbie didn't let her. "Well, no longer,” he said, glancing down at the dark-skinned woman. She was still holding his left arm firmly, but her expression showed she was starting to put everything together and realize what had happened. 

Hobbie popped the joint in his middle finger with his thumb and pulled away slightly, feeling his prosthetic left arm separate from its socket. “A souvenir!” Hobbie called as he darted between Tyria and Loran, running away from them.

He heard startled gasps behind him, the sound of running feet that quickly receded as he left them behind. Where were the other Wraiths? Stationed to head him off? Did they have a sniper? He dodged and zigzagged as he ran, ducking through gaps in the stream of other travellers. Spotting a tapcafe, he darted inside and slung his bag around his front, using his remaining arm to open it and pull free his red jacket. Using his teeth to help, he pulled it on his right arm and pulled it over his stump. He desperately hoped that would help cover the loss of his arm.

The Wraiths would be after him. That was undeniable. They’d do whatever it took to stop him from leaving. They probably had a slicer with them as well. Hobbie hadn’t used his real name to buy tickets, not wanting to give Antilles an opportunity to track him, but if they got serious it would not take them long to crack through the maze he’d left. 

Hobbie watched carefully for a moment, then pulled up his jacket hood and left the tapcafe again, walking in a leisurely way toward his transport. Did the Wraiths know which boarding area was his? If they didn't, their slicer could probably figure it out the longer he delayed. He'd have to risk it. The sooner he was offworld, the less chance they'd have to catch him.

Luckily, or unluckily, the boarding area wasn't too crowded. Hobbie quickly checked in and went to his cabin. After checking it for surveillance equipment -- he found none, which was good, indicating the Wraiths hadn't gotten here ahead of him -- Hobbie sank down into the bunk, sitting against the wall, and breathed. He’d gotten this far. Now to stay in here with his blaster set to stun until the transport was safely away from Coruscant. It’d be fine. They hadn’t caught him yet and he wouldn’t just lie down and die. Not this time or any other.

***

Tycho sat quietly on the bed next to Wes, still stroking his sleeping friend's hair, trying to give him a little more comfort. Wes had cried himself sick after the Wraiths had left. Tycho had stayed with him, rubbing his back, murmuring soothing nonsense. Finally, exhausted, Wes had allowed himself to be put to bed, and merciful sleep had claimed him. Now he lay curled on his side, still dressed in his orange flightsuit, his face buried in a pillow he hugged tightly to his chest.

Wedge entered the sleeping area. "Is he asleep?" he murmured.

Tycho considered. Wes could be a light sleeper. It was best to assume he'd overhear any conversation held near him, whether one thought he was asleep or not. On the other hand… "I think if he was awake he'd still be crying," he admitted softly, running his fingers through Wes's hair. He didn't want to leave the younger pilot alone right now. Wes hadn't been sleeping well since Distna. He wouldn't talk about his nightmares while he was awake, but Tycho had heard him muttering in his sleep, distressed little noises, _Hobbie_ and _sorry_ and _please_. 

Wedge nodded and sat down near the foot of the bed. Tycho noticed he was tracing his right thumb over and over against his knuckles. Wedge wasn't in great emotional shape either, then. "So," he said, tilting his head toward the visiting area. "They lost him at the spaceport."

Tycho nodded, resigned. "Completely?"

"Their slicer's working on it, but… we're Rebels."

"Yeah," Tycho said. Hobbie had as much experience hiding in plain sight as any of them. If he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found.

Wedge sighed. "What do you think? Is he in the wind?" He clearly didn't really want an answer. Just as clearly, he wasn't going to let that stop him.

Tycho ruffled Wes's hair, still thinking. He hoped Wes was truly asleep, not faking, not hearing this conversation. He honestly didn't think Wes would be able to hold himself together if he was listening in, but -- even now, even as thoroughly as Wes had broken down, Tycho knew he had untapped depths.

"I think we have to assume he is," he said finally. Hobbie might come back, someday, somehow, maybe. Tycho hoped he would reconsider and come around. But it would have to be Hobbie's choice. 

Wedge's lips compressed. He clearly didn't want to accept that answer. That was part of what made Wedge so special, Tycho thought; he didn't accept failure. He forced it to rewrite itself into victory. But sometimes, even Wedge failed.

Finally, Wedge nodded reluctantly. "And…?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the sleeping Wes.

That was a question Tycho didn't have an answer for. Would Wes recover? Spring back to light and life as he always had before? Or had that big heart finally shattered beyond repair?

"He needs us," Tycho said. That, at least, he was certain of.


	8. Recalibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading this. It's been such a pleasure writing this. This is the last chapter but there's an epilogue. So stay tuned!

Hobbie opened his eyes and didn't recognize his surroundings. He stayed still, trying to determine if he was safe. There was no one in the room that he could see, but his arm was missing. He breathed silently, cautiously, and memory began to drift back. Of course -- he'd left his arm to the Wraiths in order to get away. He had escaped from Coruscant before anyone could stop him. Though Antilles had tried. So he could finish the job? Not himself, of course, but by his orders. 

He'd have to keep to himself from now on. The Rogues and Wraiths would forget him soon, but not immediately. He had to stay hidden. His trail wouldn't be especially difficult to follow, but he had tried to stay hidden and had changed transports a few times before stopping here on Naboo. Still, they'd find him if they tried hard enough. 

Hobbie took a deep breath, held it and then quietly exhaled. He was alone. They didn't want him, so he left. Hobbie picked up his datapad and looked at the time and date. It had been nearly a standard day since he landed on Naboo, at least 18 hours since he fell asleep in this hotel room. 

Well. At least he felt a little better. He'd spent four days traveling, trying to evade capture, only sleeping a few hours at a time so the Wraiths didn't sneak up on him and finish the job. He wasn't sure he was safe here either, but Naboo was one planet none of them had been to, that he knew of, and it seemed safer than going somewhere else. He pushed the covers off and sat up. If the Wraiths' sniper was going to take him out, he could at least get it over with. 

When nothing happened, he got up out of bed and went to the refresher, looking it over, then turned on the water. Real water. He was going to enjoy this. Hobbie stood in the spray, getting clean and letting his thoughts wander. The Wraiths might still be after him, or Antilles might be satisfied they had run him out of his home. But wouldn't they want to finish the job? After all, no one would believe that Antilles would deliberately abandon a pilot to die in space. But he had. Hobbie was living proof. 

Another thought occurred to him. Was he just being stupid? They didn't need him. Why would they bother? He was gone and they wouldn't give him another thought now. Hobbie stood still under the running water. That was probably the truth. He hadn't really mattered to them at all. All he had to do was live now. They wouldn't waste effort looking for him, even if they did want to kill him. Maybe it would be ok. They didn't want him. And who could blame them? 

Hobbie turned off the water and sighed heavily. Day one of the rest of his pathetic life. He was going back to bed. 

***

Myn carried the tray of food carefully into the bunkroom, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting after the brightness of the quarantine common room outside. The bunkroom was seemingly empty of people, but lined with a dozen narrow beds of the sort found in medical units the galaxy over. Myn approached one of the beds in a back corner, which for the last two or three days had been occupied each morning by a tangle of three veteran pilots.

"I'm just going to leave this tray on the bed for absolutely no reason," he announced dryly to the empty air as he set the tray down.

Something shifted in the corner between the bed and the wall. A mop of curly black hair poked out of the hiding place, and a pair of confused dark eyes peeked quickly over the edge of the bed and then retreated.

"You know exactly why I'm here," Myn continued. He stayed standing, making no move to approach any further or sit down on the bed.

A deep sigh emanated from the hidey-hole. "Did Wedge put you up to this?" The voice was flat, bored, unemotional.

"No," Myn said truthfully. "I asked."

The mop of black hair shifted. Its owner seemed to be bowing his head over his knees. There was another soft little sigh. "I just want to go home."

"So you can hide alone and try to die of sadness?" Myn asked plainly. It was harsh, but -- well, maybe that was what was needed.

Janson grunted. "This is unfair."

"Because there's nothing you can say to make me back off?"

The dark eyes scowled over the edge of the bed again for a second. "Because there are plenty of things I could say to make you walk out that door and never speak to me again, but they're all cruel and uncalled-for."

Myn sighed. Janson was definitely in a mood. "Well, I'm glad we agree on that part," he said. "Look, you already know most of what I could say here. Is there any of it that would help?"

The quality of the silence was different this time, thoughtful. "How _did_ you snap out of it?" Janson asked at last.

Myn chuckled. "Face Loran is an asshole," he said. "He faked me into reliving the Talon ambush. I guess you had a simulation of it made?"

A choked little noise was the only answer.

"Kriff," Myn said, realizing. "I'm sorry. Klivian made that sim, didn't he?"

A small noise of pained affirmation. "Please, can you just go away?" Janson asked, his voice soft and pathetic.

"In a moment," Myn said. "I'm going to tell you something Kell told me back then." He'd tried to punch Kell for saying it, but Myn doubted Janson would react with violence. Myn paused for a second, but Janson showed no sign of interest. Myn continued anyway. "He reminded me that we don't have the right to lie down and die. We swore an oath to keep fighting."

"Not like I'm on duty," Janson grumbled.

"True. We have about ten days left in here. Do you think you can be fit for duty in ten days?"

A noncommittal grunt. "I could try."

"I'd appreciate it if you did." Myn turned to leave. "I won't pester you again. Unless you want me to."

"Myn?" Janson called, sounding tentative.

Myn stopped, but didn't turn. "What is it?"

"You can… pester me. If you want."

Myn smiled. Maybe there was some hope for Janson after all. "I'll keep that in mind."

***

Hobbie sighed, glancing around the waiting room of the clinic. He felt endlessly tired. This was a mistake. What if the Wraiths were here? What if they'd tracked him down and were lying in wait? Maybe they’d poison him. 

Kriff, he wasn’t safe here. He gave the clinic staff access to his true medical files. The Wraiths would know he was here. He stood up, about to leave when the nurse called, "Derek Klivian!"

Trapped. He was trapped. Hobbie took a breath and followed him.

“If you’ll stand on the scale?” the Bothan nurse asked.

“Sure, of course,” Hobbie said, letting him get his weight.

“Ok. Let’s get your vitals going and the doctor will be in momentarily,” he said with a warm smile, running a scanner over Hobbie.

“Thanks,” Hobbie told him. He yawned and ducked his head. “Sorry.”

“You’re good,” the nurse told him. “Just relax and we’ll be right with you.”

Hobbie nodded and was left alone in the room to wait. Maybe he could go? No, he was already here. If he died… that’d be ok, right? He didn’t have anything waiting on him. 

Hobbie’s chest ached. Why was he even here? No one really cared anymore. Why hadn't he just stayed hidden?

The door slid open and the human doctor entered the room. She was tall and seemed light on her feet. “Hi, I’m Doctor Griffino,”she told him. “I see you’re feeling exhausted?”

Hobbie nodded. “Exhausted and…” he hesitated. “I think I’m having some mental issues. I don’t see a point in anything and I’m extremely paranoid. I’m a pilot in Starfighter Command and I just resigned and I have nothing… I don’t feel ok.”

She nodded. “Let’s take a look at your readings and see what’s going on here.” Hobbie nodded and she activated the holo projector. "You're showing serious signs of exhaustion and depression as you can see here and here. You've also dropped a serious amount of weight." Dr. Griffino told him while she pointed at his chart. She hesitated. Hobbie knew at once that she recognized him. "You were the last survivor of something horrible. So this isn't completely unusual. But I'm concerned about these readings. I want to give you some treatment for the chemical imbalances and I strongly advise you to get some talk therapy. As for the weight loss, some of that is accounted for by the loss of your arm. It's not worrying yet but you might increase your food intake. Did you want to schedule a follow up to order a new arm?"

Hobbie exhaled. "Uh, no on the follow up. Not yet anyway. But can we go ahead with the treatment?"

"Certainly. The front desk can also get you a list of therapists in the area. That way you can follow up on that." Dr. Griffino smiled at him. "I'm glad you came in. I'll be right back."

Hobbie nodded and she left. He sagged into his seat and sighed with relief. There was something wrong. They could fix it.

***

Tycho sat down at one of the small square meal tables in the common area, across from Wes. He felt like he had time to breathe again for the first time in days. 

"I'm eating," Wes announced flatly. "See?" He gestured with the utensil he'd been using to poke at his tray of food. The unspoken message, _You don't need to check in on me,_ was loud and clear.

"Just hoping for a little company," Tycho lied mildly, beginning to cut up the protein loaf on his own tray.

Wes gave him a sullen, skeptical look. "Wedge is company," he pointed out.

"Wedge is brooding," Tycho retorted, glancing over at another small table where Wedge sat silently, eating alone. He'd get over it, eventually, but no power in the universe could hurry Wedge Antilles along when he decided to castigate himself over some perceived personal failure, and Tycho knew better than to try.

"Yeah," Wes admitted, and lapsed into silence. It was… unnerving to see him so bleak and joyless, but at least he was sitting in the same room as the others and eating at a table like a civilized being again.

"I've been trying to figure out why he left," Tycho said, testing the waters. It was incredibly simplistic to describe it like that, but the whole situation was already complicated. 

"Isn't it obvious?" Wes snapped. "He left because of me!"

Tycho winced internally. Wes probably didn't realize how loud he was being, but Tycho could practically feel the Rogues at the other tables turning to look and then tactfully turning away again.

"What do you mean?" Tycho asked cautiously. Those two were within each other's reach almost all the time. Had something he wasn't aware of happened between Wes and Hobbie?

Wes seemed to subside with a wordless little grumble. "You hadn't noticed?" he asked. "It's been an issue between us for years. Wedge and Hobbie and me." He sighed and resumed poking listlessly at his food. "Wedge asks me to do something, I do it. Whether or not it's necessary. Whether or not I had something planned with Hobbs already."

"Oh," Tycho said, looking at him in shock. And at Distna, when Wedge had effectively asked Wes to leave without checking whether Hobbie was alive... "Does… did...?" He trailed off, not sure if he should ask. 

Wes shrugged one shoulder. "Don't think Wedge knows," he said simply. "Hobbie did. Does."

Tycho swallowed and wondered why he’d never noticed this before. He considered a moment and realized it had been right in front of him this entire time. “I see,” he said simply. Hobbie thought Wedge got rid of him because he wasn’t necessary anymore. How had Hobbie never realized how much they all cared about him? “Oh Wes, I’m sorry.”

Wes nodded, shrugged slightly. "So you see," he said without expression. "He's not coming back."

Tycho frowned. “I can see why you’d think that. I hope you’re wrong though. But no matter what, we’re still here.” 

Wes reached out across the table toward Tycho's hand, not quite touching. "Yeah," he said simply.

***

Hobbie left the Coruscant offices of his credit manager, a fellow Ralltiiri exile, and turned down the busy walkway in the direction of his apartment. With his investments taken care of, he could order a new arm with little trouble and probably live for at least two years without working. Too bad he couldn't just stay here on the former throneworld. Naboo was nice, but Coruscant's bustling city life was… unique. He'd always liked it here. It was one of the few places he felt at home.

Hobbie turned down another walkway, wondering if he’d be able to scope out Janson before he left again. Just to prove to himself that they didn’t give a damn about him. He frowned at himself. Maybe they did. Maybe he should go and ask in person. Just to be clear. 

Well, he could decide that later. The most important thing he needed to do was get back to his apartment, then figure out what came next. Hobbie had missed Coruscant in all its terrible glory. Maybe he could just stay here regardless. It was a big planet; surely he could avoid running into his former friends by accident. He crossed the skybridge towards his apartment, blending into the crowd while dozens of conversations went on around him. 

His eyes caught on the sight of three beings walking ahead of him. He felt like his breath had left him. Antilles, Celchu, and Janson. They were… It was them. Hobbie wondered if he should just stop and wait for them to go to wherever they were headed. Huffing a breath, he set his shoulders and kept walking. Who cared where they were going? He had just as much right as they did to be here. Hobbie kept moving with the crowd, staying behind the three men. They turned another corner ahead of him, and he realized they were headed to his apartment. What were they doing? That was his! 

Hobbie rolled his eyes at himself. Their things. Probably going for their things. Maybe he should wait. He had already taken care of their credits and reactivated the paused accounts. Luckily Hobbie hadn’t closed the accounts or even done anything with them.

He stopped outside his building and considered his options. After a few moments of thought, irritation filled him. That was his place! So they were getting their things. They wouldn’t bother with him anyway. So he could just go home. They didn’t care before, why would they now?

Straightening his back, Hobbie walked upstairs to the door, pressing his palm against the reader, and entered. He looked at Antilles, Celchu, and Janson without transparisteel in the way for the first time since that disastrous mission. All three of them turned to look at him as he entered. Antilles and Celchu were by the stack of containers, poking through them. Janson was a little way across the room, Kettch dangling idly from one hand.

Hobbie took them all in, seeing the shock on their faces, and underneath that, the tiredness. Then Janson just…

...Janson just went blank. He didn't smile, or look angry, or have an expression at all. Just looked at Hobbie with a vague disinterest: _oh, look, it's you._ Hobbie might as well have been a colored blob in the carpet.

That -- that hurt. Hobbie frowned. Had he ever seen Janson expressionless before? He couldn't remember a time. Usually Wes was overflowing with enthusiasm, or grimly satisfied in combat, or lighting up with joy at the sight of Hobbie. Well, that resolved it, didn’t it? He was nothing to Janson. He'd known, but he hadn't expected it to sting so much.

The silence began to grow awkward. “Here for your things?" Hobbie asked. "You’ll be relieved to know that you can access your credits again.”

Antilles looked up at him, brown eyes solemn, his right thumb rubbing absently over his first two fingers. “Hob— Major Klivian,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.”

Hobbie stared at him. He… he hadn't actually expected that. But… Antilles knew what it was like. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Years ago, over the forest moon of Endor, Wedge himself had been trapped in zero grav, his hand jammed into an Imperial message buoy's self-destruct mechanism. He _knew_ what it felt like to float alone in space, slowly freezing, slowly suffocating.

They hadn't wanted to leave him. Hobbie finally knew he hadn't been abandoned on purpose after all. Suddenly overcome with relief, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath. They hadn't thrown him away. Hobbie opened his eyes and nodded. 

“I never would have left if I’d known anyone was still alive,” Wedge said. “You don’t have to believe that, but it’s true. I’m sorry.”

"Thank you," Hobbie said. "I didn't… I should have…" He shook his head and looked at them. "It's ok." 

“It doesn’t have to be ok,” Tycho said. “We hurt you. We’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Janson blurted out. He still looked unnaturally calm, sabacc face firmly in place, but Hobbie could read the strain in his voice.

Hobbie swallowed, feeling like he could finally breathe again. "I should have thought about it. I'm sorry. I should have…" he shook his head. "You did what you needed to."

"I should have checked," Wedge contradicted. "I should have insisted. I'm sorry. I let you down."

Hobbie nodded and moved forward, pulling Wedge into a one armed hug. "I forgive you. It's ok now." Wedge relaxed into it, arms wrapping around his torso.

"So," Wes asked, a little too brightly. "Are you back for good?"

Hobbie turned his head to look at him. "Well. Maybe? I resigned from Starfighter Command. But I like it here and I'm sure I could figure out something else to do. Unless you can sneak me back into the military like I never left."

Wes lit up, grinning. Wedge and Tycho looked at each other.

"That might be easier than it sounds," Tycho said, frowning and pulling out his datapad. "Wedge?"

"I would have noticed," Wedge said, shaking his head. "Wes?"

Wes frowned for a moment, then got a very peculiar puzzled expression on his face. "I haven't seen any datawork about Hobbie's resignation, if that's what you're asking," he said. "I figured you were keeping it away from me."

Hobbie raised an eyebrow. Letting go of Wedge, he pulled his datapad out and showed them the file. "I sent it to you both."

Tycho smirked, paging through his datapad. "Looks like we never received it."

Hobbie frowned. "What the hell?" Then he realized, furious. "The Wraiths."

Wes's grin grew broader. "Best quacklings ever."

"Worst, you mean," Hobbie told him. "Those kriffing bastards sliced my accounts!" 

"Yup," Wes said cheerfully. Then he tilted his head, frowning. "Where's your arm?"

Hobbie scowled. "The Wraiths still have it, I assume. Unless they threw it away."

"The Wraiths have your arm," Wedge repeated slowly.

Hobbie suddenly realized they had no idea what had occurred. "They didn't tell you. Of course," he said, rolling his eyes. "They intercepted me at the spaceport. Nelprin grabbed me by the arm, I guess not knowing that it was the prosthetic, in order to keep me from leaving. They gave me their reasons for me not to leave and I told them off. Once I said my piece, I popped the emergency release and started running for it. One very quick disguise later and I was on my transport."

Wes snorted. "I am never going to let them live that down. Foiled by a prosthetic arm! We did a good job modding that emergency release."

Hobbie smirked and nodded in agreement. "At the time, I was too furious to enjoy it but that was really good." He lost his smirk and sighed deeply. "You hurt me. Pretty bad. But it wasn't completely your fault. I want to come back. I want to be friends again."

"Of course," Tycho immediately answered. Wes stepped forward and reached out, offering Hobbie a hug, but he seemed a little hesitant to close the distance, as if still unsure how Hobbie would react. Hobbie reached out and pulled him closer. Wes wrapped his arms around Hobbie and pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face into Hobbie's chest. 

Wedge nodded. "We'd all like that more than anything. As for you coming back, I'll overlook you disappearing without letting me know," he teased gently.

"Ha. Joke's on you. I'm still on leave. No one has bothered to call me back to duty," Hobbie retorted. 

"The investigation is effectively over now. Plus I need you so consider your leave canceled," Wedge told him. 

"I've never wanted to hear those words more," Hobbie replied. 

"For once, anyway," Tycho said, wrapping his arms around Hobbie and Wes. Wedge joined in and Hobbie closed his eyes, finally getting some peace. He was home. Everything was going to be ok.

FIN


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbie and Face settle their differences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading. This has been very important to me and I'm so glad that I was able to share this story.

Hobbie was sitting on his kitchen countertop with his datapad on his lap, changing his passwords and closing the doors the slicer had used to access his equipment, when Wes let himself into Hobbie's apartment, humming softly. "Hey, Hobbs," he said, waving with one hand, and with the other half-lifting the long shapeless cloth bag he carried over one shoulder.

"Hi," Hobbie greeted him. "Oh, hey, is that...?"

"Welcome back to the society of those who can count to ten," Wes joked, pulling Hobbie's prosthetic left arm out of the bag.

Hobbie chuckled. "Hurrah. What did they do to it?"

"Loran swore they hadn't made any changes to it. They were planning some 'improvements' as an apology, but they hadn't started yet." Wes pulled a face. "I'm pretty sure I believe him, but you know the Wraiths."

"I'd rather do my own changes, thanks. Besides they'd probably link the interface with my mind and use it to see what I see or something," Hobbie grumbled as he put the datapad aside and reached for the arm. "You're _pretty_ sure?" he asked.

"It's Loran. It's not like the man has tells. But I'd like to think he'd tell me the truth."

"If it suits him," Hobbie agreed. "Fine. Help me with it. I might need a moment to reintegrate the feeling in the limb."

Wes helped hold the prosthetic steady while Hobbie fitted it to the port at the end of his upper arm and connected it. Hobbie gave it a moment to connect, then opened and closed his fist. "Ok. Ok, I'm good. Thanks, Wes."

Wes let go and stepped back a bit. "You got it. So, Hobbs..." He sighed a little. Hobbie glanced at him warily; that was Wes's _this is probably not going to go well_ expression. "Loran asked me to pass along a message. He'd like to meet with you and offer his apologies for the way he and the Wraiths treated you while we were gone."

Hobbie gave him a narrow-eyed look. "You're joking."

Wes shook his head. "I think he really is sorry. They were pretty convinced you were behind our deaths, and they didn't really look at the actual evidence as closely as they should have done to help clear you."

"That much is obvious," Hobbie said. "Do we really know this isn't some weird thing that will end up with me murdered in an alley?"

"If they murdered you, I'd be sad," Wes said with a mock pout. "I can guarantee you the Wraiths do not want to make me sad."

Hobbie scowled. "No one wants to make you sad," he groused. "Why do they want this? They messed up but Tyria did actually help me. I'd expect them to call it a draw." Hobbie crossed his arms. "Why she helped, I don't know but she's ok."

"Tyria's a good kid," Wes agreed, leaning against the countertop. "But from what I hear -- from a few different sources -- Loran in particular treated you pretty badly, and I think he honestly is sorry and wants to apologize. You want to at least go hear what he says, maybe spit in his eye if you don't like it?"

Hobbie considered it. Loran knew a lot about him. Things he still kept from his friends. He wasn't above blackmail but would it even matter? "Will you bail me out if I get a disorderly?"

Wes put one hand over his heart, acting dramatically hurt. "You have to ask?"

"Good point," Hobbie acquiesced. "I'll try not to take off my arm and beat him with it."

Wes snickered. "If you do, I want to see it. Should I be hiding in the bushes with a holocam?"

Hobbie rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Not this time," he said. "It would make you happy if we all got along, wouldn't it?"

"Nothing would delight me more," Wes said cheerfully. "That I've thought of yet, anyway."

"As much as I'd prefer to say 'think harder', I'll go," Hobbie told him. "For curiosity's sake at least."

Wes grinned up at him. "You're the best, Hobbs."

"It's a difficult thing to be, but one must," he said, teasing him.

"Somebody has to do it," Wes agreed. "And I'm too busy being the cutest."

Hobbie laughed. "Alright," he said. "But we're going back to the park. I don't want him here."

Wes nodded. "I'll let him know. Or will you two arrange things yourselves?"

Hobbie frowned. "I'll let you. Tell him that I'll be in the park where he yelled at me tomorrow afternoon at 1500."

***

Face shifted on the park bench, uncrossing his legs and recrossing them the other way, and rubbed awkwardly at his bare cheekbone. He'd gotten used to wearing some sort of disguise almost everywhere he went, as much for practice as by necessity, but for this meeting… well, it hadn't felt right. No artifice, no manipulation, just a simple apology. He'd kriffed up, that was all there was to it.

He saw a gangly, dark-clad figure approaching. Klivian was strolling along, hands in his pockets, wariness radiating off him under a feigned unconcern. As he drew closer, Face could see the man's clothing more clearly, and suppressed an admiring smirk. On Ralltiir, Thirdborns wore restrictive, highly decorative clothing in all black; the planet's sumptuary laws expressly forbade them to don any other color. Klivian wore black trousers and a black hide jacket, but they fitted him comfortably, and under his jacket he wore a blue tunic -- the color of a Firstborn. Ralltiiri might not communicate through conscious use of body language the way Lorrdians did, but when it came to the conscious use of fashion, Face was quite certain Klivian's choices were deliberate. He was sending a message. _Yes, I'm a Third, and I know you know, and I don't care._

Hobbie gave him a look and sat down beside him. “Wes said you wished to speak with me,” he said coolly. “I do hope it doesn’t go like our last discussion in this park.” 

"Hopefully not," Face said. "I want to apologize. I was convinced of your guilt, and I ignored all the evidence to the contrary and caused you a lot of trouble. I…" He didn't apologize often. "I'm sorry."

Hobbie sighed. “Why were you so certain of my guilt?” he asked. “I understand that I’m not… I’m very aware that I’m not Wedge. I don’t need to be. My skills have more than spoken for themselves. So what was it?” 

Face shrugged. "Truthfully?" he said. "I don't know. I just couldn't accept that you were the one who survived. Over all the other pilots I might have... preferred. But that's my problem, and I shouldn't have let it affect my actions -- or not once it became evident that you weren't actually a traitor and a spy."

“You’re not often wrong, are you?” Hobbie asked, smirking at him. “I didn’t know that Thirds were used as spies. But suddenly a few things about my credit manager have fallen into place,” he mused. “She’s not a spy either, don’t go after her.” 

Face chuckled. "I wasn't planning to. So, are we good, or do I need to grovel some more?"

“Only if you like. I will admit, it is nice,” Hobbie told him. “Especially compared with your performance last time.” 

"I aim to please," Face said, smiling easily.

“You lie like a rug,” Hobbie told him. “I suppose that’s a part of your job?” 

"Oh, the vast majority," Face assured him with a smirk. "I'm no longer an upstanding member of Starfighter Command, remember? I lie and cheat and steal, all in the name of patriotism."

“I miss that,” Hobbie said easily. “That used to be Starfighter Command before we became a legit government.” 

Face snickered. "You'd make a good Wraith, you know," he said. "Especially if you've retained as much from those days as General Antilles and Major Janson. Would you be interested in a joint op sometime?"

Hobbie looked at him and cracked up. “I’ve retained more, arguably. No one notices me, remember?” he said. “But if you have need, requisition me. I think it would be an interesting op.” 

"I will," Face said. "And if you happen to want an upgraded arm, let me know. My Wraiths had some interesting ideas."

Hobbie considered it. “Sure. I’d rather supervise their endeavours,” he said. He offered a hand. “Pax?” 

Face shook his hand. "Should I still be watching for you to beat me over the head with your arm the next time you take it off?"

“Not at the moment, no. But we’re just getting to know each other,” Hobbie said lightly. “Let’s see what your degenerates want to do with my arm.” 

"Might want to keep this conversation between ourselves, then," Face remarked. "I doubt they'll be as helpful or as creative if they're trying to goad you into beating me up with a prosthetic arm. They'll be too busy figuring out how to get the best holos of the process."

Hobbie huffed a laugh. “Sounds familiar,” he said. 

"They do take after Janson, don't they?" Face said with a grin.

“That they do,” Hobbie said with a fond look on his face. “His quacklings.” 

"All grown up now," Face said. "We should probably let him know the two of us haven't killed each other yet."

Hobbie raised an eyebrow at Face for describing the Wraiths as by any means grown up. "He'll want to join us. Might be for the best."

Face stood up. "Or the worst," he said cheerfully. "Mama quackling and the babies, all in the same place. You know they encourage each other."

Hobbie smirked while he stood to his full height. "That's definitely true. But I'm very good at keeping Wes from spiraling so we'll be fine."

Face raised his eyebrows. "No offense, but I'll believe that when I see it."

Hobbie shrugged. "You thought I orchestrated the downfall of Rogue Squadron but you doubt my Wes handling abilities? I think I'm hurt."

"You _think?_ "

Hobbie sighed. "Apparently not, considering I'm willing to be around you and your Wraiths."

Face cackled. "Touché. Let's go collect Janson before you return to your senses."

"Let's," Hobbie said and gestured towards the park exit and started walking, leaving him behind. 

Face trotted to catch up, grinning. This should be fun.

END


End file.
